"From my hand," echoed a thousand fine voices, quivering all through the air of the room.
"No, no," cried Felix, pushing the clerk away, "the money would burn me! Begone with you!"
He dropped exhausted into a chair, half suffocated, with drops of sweat rolling down his convulsed face. The man bowed to the floor, and slowly moved away backwards. With every gradual step Felix saw his natural shape return. The rays of the autumn sun ceased to light up that mysterious apparition, and only his attorney's humble clerk stood before Felix. With a rush overpowering his will, Felix dashed after the old man, already across the threshold, and overtook him on the staircase.
"My papers!" he shouted imperiously. "Here they are, sir," said the old fellow quietly.
Felix regained his room, bolted the door, and counted the immense sum contained in the pocket-book with excitement bordering on frenzy. Then he bathed his burning head with cold water, and threw an anxious look around the room.
"I must have had an attack of fever," he muttered.
A TROPIC FOREST.—GRANVILLE PERKINS
"Mandarins don't rise from the dead, and a man can't kill another by simply lifting his finger. So my philosopher talked like one who knows nothing of moral experience. If the fancy of an unreal crime almost drove me mad, what must be the remorse of an actual criminal?"