He was staring down, dry-eyed.
“I see,” he said stupidly, “both dead. Kill, kill—who was I to kill? Not them. They’re dead. Something still tells me to kill!” He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
Burke lit a lamp that stood on a heavy dresser and put out the torch. He stood looking down at the two women. He then noted that the room was growing shadowy. He glanced at the lamp. It was full of oil and the wick seemed to be burning freely, yet the light continued to lower.
Burke again glanced at the two women. Slowly, almost invisibly, he fancied that the agonized features were changing to the repose of death.
Hayden arose and came to the detective’s side. He was muttering and softly moaning. Burke watched him.
Hayden, with a sudden start, looked across the room.
“They’re coming back!” he mumbled, “weaving and twisting.”
His eyes moved slowly from the opposite side of the room as if he were following some moving object. They came to rest on the women’s faces.
“Streaming down their mouths!” he muttered. “They’re sucking in the twisting rolls. They’re coming to life!”
Burke glanced at the women. In the dim light he could have sworn that he saw traces of returning life. At that moment there came a crashing report at his side and a blinding flash.