It promised to be an endless night for him; and there were other nights to come—interminable nights. And now he began to watch the clock—strained eyes riveted on the stiff gilded hands—and on the little one jerkily, pitilessly recording the seconds and twitching them one by one into eternity.
Nearer and nearer to midnight crept the gilded, flamboyant hour-hand; the gaunter minute-hand was slowly but inexorably overtaking it. Nearer, nearer, they drew together; then came the ominous click; a moment's suspense; the high-keyed gong quivered twelve times under the impact of the tiny steel hammer.
And he never would hear her voice again. And he dropped to his knees asking mercy on them both.
In his dulled ears still lingered the treble ringing echo of the bell—lingered, reiterated, repeated incessantly, until he thought he was going mad. Then, of a sudden, he realised that the telephone was ringing; and he reeled from his knees to his feet, and crept forward into the shadows, feeling his way like a blind man.
"Louis?"
But he could not utter a sound.
"Louis, is it you?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"What is the matter? Are you ill? Your voice is so strange. Are you?"
"No!—Is it you, Valerie?"