“Come, follow me.” And opening the door we ascended the stairs.
“Ah!” she cried excitedly. “He is still here! That woman lied when she told me he had gone, eh? He is still in the house!”
I made no reply, but went on, she following closely behind.
Then a few moments later, having gained the top landing, I threw open the door of the darkened chamber of death and drew aside the curtains.
She dashed to the bed and tore the sheet from the dead, white face.
Then she staggered back as though she had received a blow.
“My God!” she cried. “Too late!—too late!”
Dull, dazed, she stood there, with the stare of blank despair in her eyes and pale as ashes. The dead white face seemed to wear a smile—the smile of cheerful resignation, as though his body had parted with its spirit in gladness and in triumph.
For a little while she stood stock-still and speechless—the living dead! Suddenly—ah! it is nothing in the telling; one should have heard and seen to realise—suddenly there welled up from the depths of her heart the sigh of its aching, the sob of its breaking. Then she shrieked with the ghastly laughter of despair. Then she lashed out to a cursing of the dead man and all his deeds; and her execrations were the most shocking because they proceeded from the tongue of a sweet-mouthed woman.
Of a sudden her eyes fell upon the stranger’s two portmanteaux, and dashing across she knelt to open them.