"No; no!" he whispered tremulously, huskily. "Ah, God! no! Spare me! I swear—I swear—I will not look again. I won't move. I'll make no sound."
He dropped his head into his hands—quaking; the lamp, the table, were swimming about him; he had never passed through ten such seconds of dread as those which followed his spell of temerity.
Yet he lived—and knew himself spared. Not for five hundred thousand pounds would he have looked again.
The minutes wore on—became hours. It seemed to Julius Rohscheimer that all London slept now; all London save one unhappy man in Park Lane.
Three o'clock, four o'clock, five o'clock struck. His head fell forward. He aroused himself with a jerk. Again his head fell forward. And this time he did not arouse himself; he slept.
"Mr. Rohscheimer! Mr. Rohscheimer!"
There were voices about him. He could distinguish that of his wife. Adeler was shaking him. Was that Haredale at the door?
Shakily, he got upon his feet.
"Why, Mr. Rohscheimer!" exclaimed Adeler, in blank wonderment, "have you not been to bed?"