Then he rushed to the looking-glass. At the reflection of his face he recoiled with a scream, and flung himself prone on the bed.
I went to the door and found Von Lindheim outside.
“What is this fearful thing? What has happened to him?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I know no more than you,” he said in a frightened whisper. “I heard him shriek, rushed in and saw”—he shuddered—“what you have seen. Those devils have got in and have done for him.”
“You saw no one?”
“No. But they will come. They are here, Tyrrell. I am going to put a bullet through my brain. It is better than that.”
“Don’t be a fool,” I said, and went back into the room.
Szalay was lying as I had left him. I spoke his name, but he returned no answer, made no movement. Nerving myself, I went up and lifted the outstretched arm. It was heavy and lifeless. I felt for the pulse; there was none. Then I went back to Von Lindheim and told him:
“He is dead.”