"Smith! Smith!" I cried, "what is it? what is it?"
He turned in a flash, as Weymouth entered at his heels, saw me, and fell back a step; then looked again down at the floor.
"God's mercy!" he whispered, "I thought it was you—I thought it was you!"
Trembling violently, my mind a feverish chaos, I moved to the foot of the bed and looked down at what lay there.
"Turn up the light!" snapped Smith.
Weymouth reached for the switch, and the room became illuminated suddenly.
Prone upon the carpet, hands outstretched and nails dug deeply into the pile of the fabric, lay a dark-haired man having his head twisted sideways so that the face showed a ghastly pallid profile against the rich colorings upon which it rested. He wore no coat, but a sort of dark gray shirt and black trousers. To add to the incongruity of his attire, his feet were clad in drab-colored shoes, rubber-soled.
I stood, one hand raised to my head, looking down upon him, and gradually regaining control of myself. Weymouth, perceiving something of my condition, silently passed his flask to me; and I gladly availed myself of this.
"How in Heaven's name did he get in?" I whispered.
"How, indeed!" said Weymouth, staring about him with wondering eyes.