The window beside him was open, and through it the cool breeze entered and fanned his fevered brow. The night without was calm and placid. Nature was lovely, bathed in the light of the summer moon; but the man was oblivious of the beauties of the night. He glanced at the clock now and then, and observing the long hand climbing up the incline toward the figure twelve, he redoubled his labor at his manuscript.
Anon he glanced at the revolver on the desk beside him. He touched its ivory handle as if faltering in his resolution; and then went on with his writing.
Hark!
What sound is that that is borne upon the breeze of the summer night? A long, low wail, like the cry of a woman in mortal anguish.
The man started like a guilty soul, dashed the dews of perspiration from his clammy brow, and uttered an incoherent exclamation.
Again! again, that moaning, uncanny cry!
The man heard it and groaned aloud. He dashed aside the last page of his manuscript, and glanced again at the clock. The hands marked the hour of midnight. He grasped the revolver with a resolute air and exclaimed through his clenched teeth:
And, going to the window, he fired twice. * * * There was a scattering sound in the backyard, and the next day a gray cat was found dead close to the woodshed. The story and the deed were done.