IN WHICH THE FEARS OF ROULETABILLE ASSUME ALARMING PROPORTIONS
It was literally true that he was frightened. And I was more terrified
myself than words could express. I had never seen him in such a state
of mental inquietude. He walked up and down the room nervously,
occasionally stopping in front of the mirror and passing his hand over
his forehead, as if he were asking his own image, “Can it be you,
Rouletabille, who have such thoughts? How dare you harbor them?” What
thoughts? He seemed rather to be upon the point of thinking than to
be actually doing so, and to be using every means of driving thought
away. He shook his head savagely and started for the window as though
he meant to leap out, leaning forth into the night, listening for the
slightest noise on the distant bank of the sea, expecting, perhaps,
to hear the wheels of the little carriage and the echo of Toby’s
shoes. One might have thought him a beast at bay. The surf was quiet;
the waves had grown entirely appeased. A white ray appeared suddenly
shining over the black waters. It was the dawn. And in a moment the old
château seemed to rise out of the night, pale and livid with the same
pallor as our own--the pallor of one who has not slept. “Rouletabille,”
I asked, trembling as I spoke, for I felt that I was intruding upon
ground where my feet had no right to tread; “your interview with your
mother was very brief and you separated in silence. I want to ask
you, my boy, whether she told you the story of the accident with the
revolver on the night stand that Bernier told me?”
“No,” he answered without turning his face toward me.
“She told you nothing of that kind?”
“No.”
“And you did not ask her for any explanation of the pistol shot nor of
the death cry--the cry that was the echo of the one which we heard two
years ago from her lips in the ‘inexplicable gallery’?”
“Sainclair, you are too curious--you are more curious than I. I asked
her nothing.”
“And you swore to see nothing and to hear nothing without her saying
anything to you about the pistol shot and the cry?”
“Truly, Sainclair, it was necessary for me to believe--for my part, I
respected the secrets of the Lady in Black. I had nothing to ask of
her when she said to me, ‘We must leave each other now, my child, but
nothing can ever separate us again!’”
“Ah, she said that to you--‘Nothing can ever separate us again’?”
“Yes, my friend--and there was blood upon her hands.”
We looked at each other in silence. I was now at the window and beside
the reporter. Suddenly his hand touched mine. Then he pointed to the
little taper which was burning at the entrance to the subterranean door
which led to Old Bob’s study in the Tower of the Bold.
“It is dawn,” said Rouletabille. “And Old Bob is still at work. This
old fellow is certainly industrious and we will go and have a peep at
him at his labors. That will change our current of thought and I shall
be able to get away from these horrors that are smothering me and
driving me half wild.”
And he heaved a long sigh.
“Will Darzac never return!” he murmured, more as though he were
speaking to himself than to me.
A few moments later we had crossed the court and had descended into the
octagon room of the Tower of Charles the Bold. It was empty. The lamp
was burning on the work table, but there was no sign of Old Bob.
“Oh!” cried Rouletabille. He picked up the lamp and carried it from
place to place examining everything around him. He tried in turn
the lock of every little window which opened from the walls of the
basement. Nothing had changed its place, and all was arranged in order
and scientific etiquette. While we were looking around at the bones and
shells and horns of the prehistoric ages, the “hanging crystals,” the
rings made out of bone, the buckles formed from teeth, and the other
treasures of the savant, we came to the little desk-table. There we
found the “oldest skull in the history of humanity”; and it was true
that it had been spattered with the red paint of the wash drawing which
M. Darzac had set to dry upon that part of the desk which faced the
window and was exposed to the sun. I went from one window to the other
and shook the iron bars in order to assure myself that they had not
been touched nor tampered with in any way. Rouletabille saw what I was
doing and said:
“What are you about? Before thinking about how he could have gotten
out at the windows, wouldn’t it be better to find out whether he went
by the door?”
He set the lamp upon the parapet and looked for traces of footprints.
Then Rouletabille said:
“Go and knock at the door of the Square Tower and ask Bernier whether
Old Bob has come in. Ask Mattoni at the postern and Pere Jacques at the
iron gate. Go, Sainclair--quick!”
Five minutes after I went out I was back with the information. No one
had seen Old Bob in any part of the fortress. He had not passed by
anywhere. Rouletabille had his face close to the parapet. He said:
“He left this lamp burning in order to make people believe that he was
at work.” And then he added, softly: “There is no sign of a struggle of
any sort and in the sand I find the traces of the footprints of only
M. Arthur Rance and M. Robert Darzac, who came to this room during the
storm last night and have brought on their feet a little earth from the
court of the Bold and also of the claylike soil of the outer court.
There is no footprint which could be Old Bob’s. Old Bob reached here
before and, perhaps, went out while the tempest was raging, but, in any
case, he has not come in since.” Rouletabille stood erect. He replaced
upon the desk the lamp the rays of which fell directly upon the skull
which had been splashed by the red paint in a frightful fashion. Around
us there were dozens of skeletons but certainly their presence was less
alarming to me than the absence of Old Bob.
Rouletabille stood for a moment staring at the crimson skull, then he
took it in his hands and held his eyes close to its empty orbits. Then
he raised the skull higher and held it at arms’ length, gazing at it
with an almost breathless interest; he looked at the profile. Then he
placed the hideous object in my hands and told me to raise it to the
level of my head, as carefully as thought it were the most precious of
burdens while Rouletabille brought the lamp very close to it.
Like a flash an idea pierced through my brain. I let the skull fall on
the desk and rushed through the court till I came to the oubliette.
I discovered that the iron bars which closed it were still fast. If
anyone had fled by that way or had fallen into the shaft or had thrown
himself down, the bars would have been opened. I hurried back, more
anxious than ever.
“Rouletabille! Rouletabille! There is no way that Old Bob could have
gotten out except in the sack!”
I repeated the sentence, but my friend was not listening and I was
surprised to see him deeply engrossed in a task of which I found it
impossible to guess the meaning. How, at a time as tragic as the
present, while we were awaiting only the return of M. Darzac to
complete the circle in which the impossible body was found--while
in the Square Tower, the Lady in Black, like Lady MacBeth, must be
occupied in effacing from her hands the stains of the strangest of
crimes, Rouletabille seemed to be amusing himself by making drawings
with a foot rule, a square, a measure and a compass. There he was,
seated in the old geologist’s easy chair with Robert Darzac’s drawing
board before him and he also was making a plan--quiet and imperturbable
as an architect’s clerk.
He had pricked the paper with one of the points of his compass while
the other point traced the circle which might represent the Tower of
the Bold as we could see it in the design of M. Darzac. Then, dipping
his brush into a tiny dish half full of the red paint which M. Darzac
had been using he carefully spread the paint over the entire space
occupied by the circle. In doing this, he was extremely particular,
giving the greatest attention to seeing that the paint was of the
same thickness at every point, just as a student might have done in
preparing a lesson. He bent his head first to the right and then to the
left as though to see the effect, moistening his lips with his tongue
as though he were meditating earnestly. In a moment he gave a little
start and then sat motionless. His eyes were fixed on the drawing as
though they had been glued to it. They did not even move in their
sockets. The stillness was horrible, but it was not much better when
his lips opened to utter an exclamation of breathless horror. His face
looked like that of a maniac. And he turned toward me so quickly that
he upset the great easy chair in which he had been seated.
“Sainclair! Sainclair! Look at the red paint! Look at the red paint!”
I leaned over the drawing, breathless, terrified by the savage
exultation of his tone. But I could only see a little drawing carefully
done.
“The red paint! the red paint!” he kept groaning, his eyes staring in
his head as though he were witnessing some frightful spectacle.
“But what--what is it?” I stammered.
“‘_What is it?_’ My God, man, can’t you see? Don’t you know that
that is _blood_?”
No, I did not know it--indeed, I was quite sure that it wasn’t
blood. It was merely red paint. But I took care not to contradict
Rouletabille. I feigned to be interested in this idea of blood.
“Whose blood?” I inquired. “Do you think that it can be Larsan’s?”
“Oh! oh! oh! Larsan’s blood? Who knows anything about Larsan’s blood?
Who has ever seen the color of it? To see that, it would be necessary
to open my own veins, Sainclair. That’s the only way!”
I was completely overwhelmed and astonished.
“My father would not let his blood be spilled like that!”
He was speaking again with that strange, desperate pride of his father.
“When my father wears a wig, it will fit! My father would not let his
blood be spilled like that!”
“Bernier’s hands were covered with it and you yourself saw it upon the
hand of the Lady in Black.”
“Yes, yes! That is true--that is true! But they could never kill my
father like that!”
He seemed to grow more excited every moment and he never ceased gazing
on the little wash drawing. At last he spoke, his breast shaken with a
great sob.
“O, God! O God! O God, have pity on us! That would be too frightful!”
He ceased for a moment and then spoke again:
“My poor mother did not deserve this! I did not deserve it--nor any one
in the world!” A tear ran down his cheek and fell into the little dish
of paint.
“Ah!” he cried. “It isn’t necessary to fill it any fuller.” And he
picked up the tiny cup with infinite care and carried it to the cabinet.
Then he took me by the hand and bade me look at him
carefully--carefully--and tell him whether he had not really gone
suddenly insane.
[Illustration: His eyes seemed glued to his drawing. They never moved
from the paper.]
“Let us go! let us go!” he said, drearily, at last. “The time is
come, Sainclair. No matter what happens, we can never turn back
now! The Lady in Black must tell us everything--_everything about
the man who is in that sack_! Ah, if M. Darzac were to return
immediately--immediately!--it might be less painful--but I dare wait no
longer!”
Wait for what? Wait for whom? And why should he be so terrified now?
What fear had made his eyes so wild? Why did his teeth chatter?
I could not restrain myself from asking him again:
“What are you afraid of? Do you think that Larsan is not dead?”
And he answered, gripping my hand as though he would never release it:
“I tell you I fear his death more than I fear his life!”
And he knocked at the door of the Square Tower before which we were
standing as he spoke. I asked him whether he did not wish me to leave
him alone with his mother. But, to my great surprise, he begged me not
to abandon him “for anything in the world--so that the circle should
not be closed.” And he added mournfully. “Perhaps it may never be!”
The door of the Tower remained closed. He knocked again; then it was
opened and we saw Bernier’s face appear. He seemed embarrassed at the
sight of us.
“What do you want? What are you doing here again?” he demanded. “Speak
low. Madame is in Old Bob’s sitting room. And the old man has not come
in yet.”
“Let us enter, Bernier!” said Rouletabille. And he pushed the door
further open.
“But whatever you do, don’t let Madame suspect----”
“No, no!” replied Rouletabille, impatiently.
We were in the vestibule of the Tower. The darkness was almost
impenetrable.
“What is Madame doing in Old Bob’s sitting room?” asked the reporter in
a low voice.
“She is waiting--waiting for the return of M. Darzac. She dare not
reënter _the room_ until he comes--nor I, either!”
“Well, go back into your lodge, Bernier!” ordered Rouletabille. “And
wait until I call you.”
The young reporter opened the door of Old Bob’s salon, and we saw the
form of the Lady in Black, or, rather, her shadow, for the apartment
was very dark and the first faint rays of the sun had scarcely
penetrated it. The tall, sombre silhouette of Mathilde was standing but
it leaned against the corner of the window which looked out upon the
court of Charles the Bold. She never moved at our entrance, but her
lips opened and a voice that I should never have recognized as hers,
murmured:
“Why are you come? I saw you crossing the court. You have been there
all night. You know all. What do you want now?”
And she added in a tone of unutterable misery:
“You swore to me that you would seek to know nothing.”
Rouletabille went to her side and took her hand reverently.
“Come, Mother, dearest!” he said and the simple words upon his lips
sounded like a prayer, tender and imploring. “Come--come!”
And he drew her away. She did not resist in the least. It was as though
as soon as he touched her hand, he could bend her to his will. But when
he led her to the door of the fatal chamber, her whole frame seemed to
recoil. “Not there!” she moaned.
And she reeled against the wall to keep herself from falling.
Rouletabille tried the door. It was locked. He called Bernier, who
opened the door and then hurried away as though he were bent on
escaping from some deadly peril.
Once the door was opened, we looked into the room. What a spectacle we
beheld! The chamber was in the most frightful disorder. And the crimson
dawn which entered through the vast embrasures rendered the disorder
still more sinister. What an illumination for a chamber of horrors!
Blood was upon the walls and upon the floor and upon the furniture!
The blood of the rising sun and the blood of him whom Toby had carried
off in the sack, no one knew whither!--in the potato bag! The tables,
the chairs, the sofas were all overturned. The curtains of the bed to
which the man in his death agony had tried desperately to cling were
half torn down and one could distinguish upon one of them the mark of a
bloody hand.
It was into this scene that we entered, supporting the Lady in Black,
who seemed ready to swoon, while Rouletabille kept murmuring to her in
his gentle and pleading tones: “It has to be done, Mother! It has to be
done!” And as soon as he had placed her upon a couch which I had turned
right side up, he began to question her. She answered in monosyllables,
by signs of the head or movements of the hands. And I saw that the
further the examination progressed, the more troubled and restless
Rouletabille became. He was visibly affected. He endeavored to regain
his composure and to help his mother maintain hers but it was difficult
for him to succeed in either effort. He spoke to the unhappy woman
as though he were still her little child. He called her “mamma” and
tried in every way to show his reverence and love for her. But she had
utterly lost courage. He held out his arms and she threw herself into
them; the son and mother embraced and that seemed to give her a little
more strength and she burst into a fit of weeping which seemed to
relieve a little the terrible weight upon her breast. I made a movement
as if to retire, but both sought to detain me and I saw that they did
not wish to be left alone in this room red with blood.
Mme. Darzac, after her sobs had ceased, murmured:
“We are delivered!”
Rouletabille had fallen upon his knees at her side and, as she
uttered the words, he said entreatingly: “Mother, dearest, in order
that we may be sure of that--quite sure--you must tell me all that
happened--everything that you saw.”
Then she told us the story. She looked at the closed door; she looked
with what seemed to be new horror at the overturned furniture and the
blood-spattered walls and floor and she narrated the details of the
frightful scene through which she had passed in a voice so low as to
be almost inaudible, and I was obliged to bring my ear close to her to
hear at all. In short, halting phrases, she told us that as soon as
M. Darzac had entered his room, he had drawn the bolt and had walked
straight to the little table which was placed in the center of the
room. The Lady in Black was standing a little nearer the left, ready
to pass into her own sleeping room. The apartment was lighted only by
a wax candle placed on the night commode, at the left, near Mathilde’s
door. And this is what happened:
The silence of the room was suddenly broken by a loud crash, like that
of a piece of furniture falling to the ground, which made both M. and
Mme. Darzac quickly raise their heads while their hearts were struck at
the same moment by the same thrill of terror. The crash came from the
little panel. And then all was silent. The pair looked at each other
without daring to utter a word, perhaps without being able to do so.
Darzac made a movement toward the panel which was situated at the back
of the room on the right hand side. He was nailed to the spot where he
stood by a second crash, louder than the first, and this time it seemed
to Mathilde that she could see the panel move. The Lady in Black asked
herself whether she were the victim of a hallucination, or if she had
really seen the panel move. But Darzac had seen the same thing, for he
made a hasty step in that direction. But at that very moment, the panel
swung open before them. Pushed by an invisible hand it turned on its
hinges. The Lady in Black tried to cry out, but her tongue clove to the
roots of her mouth. But she made a gesture of terror and bewilderment
which threw the wax candle to the ground at the very moment when a
shadowy form issued from the panel. Uttering a cry of rage, Robert
Darzac rushed upon the figure.
“And that shadow--that shadow had a face that you could see?”
interrupted Rouletabille. “Mamma, why did you not see the face? You
have killed the shadow, but how do we know that it was Larsan, if you
did not see his face? Perhaps you have not even killed Larsan’s shadow.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, almost listlessly. “He is dead.” And then for a
moment, she said no more.
And I looked at Rouletabille, asking myself: Who could have been killed
if it were not Larsan? If Mathilde had not seen his face, she had
certainly heard his voice. She shuddered yet at the recollection--she
heard it yet. And Bernier, too, had heard the voice and recognized
it--that terrible voice of Larsan’s--the voice of Ballmeyer, who in
that fearful conflict in the middle of the night, had promised death
to Robert Darzac. “This blow will end your life!” while Darzac could
only groan in the tones of a dying man, “Mathilde! Mathilde!” Ah, how
he had cried to her!--how he had called with the rattle in his throat,
as he lay already vanquished and in the shadow of death! And she--she
had only to throw her own shadow, swooning with terror, into the midst
of those two other shadows, while the man she loved called upon her for
the aid she could not give and which could not come from elsewhere.
And then, suddenly, there had come the pistol shot and she had uttered
that terrible shriek--as though she had been wounded, herself. “Who was
dead? Who was living? Who was speaking? Whose voice would she hear?”
And then it was Robert who spoke.
Rouletabille took the Lady in Black into his arms once more, lifted her
up and carried her tenderly to the door of her own room. And there, he
said to her: “Mamma, you must leave me now. I have work to do--for you,
for M. Darzac and for myself.”
“Don’t leave me! I beg of you not to leave me until Robert comes
back!” she cried in terror. Rouletabille begged her to try and take
some rest and promised to remain near her if she would close her door,
when someone knocked at the door of the corridor. Rouletabille asked
who was there and the voice of Darzac answered.
“At last!” cried Rouletabille, and he threw the door open.
The man who entered looked like a corpse. Never was human face so
pallid, so bloodless, so devoid of all semblance of life. So many
emotions had ravaged his visage that it expressed not a single one.
“Ah! you were there!” he said. “Well, it is over.”
And he fell into the chair from which Rouletabille had just raised the
Lady in Black. He looked up at her.
“Your wish is realized,” he said. “It is where you wished it to be.”
“Did you see his face?” questioned Rouletabille excitedly.
“No,” answered Darzac, wearily. “I have not seen it. Did you think that
I was going to open the sack?”
I thought that Rouletabille would have shown discomfiture at this
answer but, on the contrary, he turned to M. Darzac and said:
“Ah, you did not see his face. That’s very good, indeed.” And he
pressed his hand affectionately.
“The important thing now,” he went on, “is not that, at all. It is
necessary that we should close the circle. And you will help us do
that, M. Darzac. Wait a moment.”
And almost joyously, he threw himself down on all fours and crawled
around among the furniture and under the bed as I had seen him do in
the Yellow Room. And from time to time, he raised his head to say:
“Ah, I shall find something--something that will save us.”
I answered, looking at M. Darzac: “Aren’t we saved already?”
“Which will save our brains,” Rouletabille went on.
“The boy is right!” exclaimed M. Darzac. “It is absolutely necessary
for us to know how that man got into the room.”
Suddenly Rouletabille rose to his feet, holding in his hand a revolver
which he had found under the panel.
“Ah! you have found his revolver!” cried M. Darzac. “Fortunately, he
did not have time to use it.”
As he spoke M. Darzac took from his pocket his own revolver--the
revolver which had saved his life--and held it out to the young man.
“This is a good weapon!” he said.
Rouletabille examined it closely and looked into the empty barrel out
of which had sped the ball which had dealt death; then he compared
the pistol with that which he had found under the panel and which had
fallen from the hand of the assassin. The latter was a “bull dog” and
bore the mark of a London gunsmith; it seemed to be quite new, every
barrel was filled and Rouletabille declared that it had never been
fired.
“Larsan only avails himself of firearms in the last extremity,” said
the young man. “He hates noise of any kind. You may be sure that he
intended merely to frighten you with his revolver, otherwise he would
have fired it immediately.”
[Illustration: Rouletabille examined the barrel of Darzac’s revolver,
and then compared the weapon with the other which he held.]
And Rouletabille returned M. Darzac’s revolver and put Larsan’s in his
pocket.
“Of what use is it to be armed now?” cried M. Darzac, shaking his head.
“I assure you it is quite futile.”
“You believe so?” demanded Rouletabille.
“I am certain of it.”
Rouletabille made a few steps through the room and said:
“With Larsan, one can never be sure of anything. Where is the body?”
M. Darzac replied.
“Ask my wife. I want to forget all about it. I know nothing more about
this horrible thing. When the remembrance of that dreadful journey
shall return to me, I shall try to make myself believe that it was a
nightmare. And I will drive it away. Never speak to me of it again. No
one save Mme. Darzac knows where the body is. She may tell you, if she
likes.”
“I have forgotten, too!” said Mathilde. “I was obliged to do so.”
“Nevertheless,” insisted Rouletabille, shaking his head, “you must tell
me. You said that he was in his agony. Are you sure that he is dead
now?”
“I am perfectly sure,” replied M. Darzac, simply.
“Oh, it is finished. Is it not entirely ended?” pleaded Mathilde. She
arose and walked to the window. “See! there is the sun! This horrible
night is dead--dead, forever! Everything is over!”
Poor Lady in Black! The yearnings of her soul revealed themselves in
her words. “It is finished!” And the fact, as she believed it, made
her forget all the horror of the scene which had passed in this room.
Larsan no more! Larsan buried! Buried in the potato sack!
And we all started up in affright, when the Lady in Black began to
laugh--the frantic laugh of a madwoman! She ceased as suddenly as she
had begun and a horrible stillness followed. We dared look neither at
her nor at each other! She was the first to speak.
“It is all over!” she said. “Forgive me: I won’t laugh again.”
And then Rouletabille said, speaking in a very low tone:
“It will be over when we know how he got in.”
“What good would it do?” replied the Lady in Black. “It is a question
to which he alone knows the answer. He is the only one who could tell
us and he is dead.”
“He will not be truly dead for us until we know that,” responded
Rouletabille.
“Evidently,” said M. Darzac, “so long as we do not know that, we shall
be uneasy and he will be there in our minds. He must be driven away! he
must be!”
“Let us try to drive him away then,” said Rouletabille.
And he went to the Lady in Black and gently took her hand in his and
attempted to draw her into the next room, begging her to lie down and
rest. But Mathilde declared that she would not go. She said: “What!
you would drive Larsan away and I not here!” And her voice sounded as
though she were about to laugh again. I made a sign to Rouletabille not
to insist upon her absence.
Rouletabille opened the door leading into the corridor and called
Bernier and his wife.
They did not wish to enter, but we insisted on their doing so, and a
general consultation took place from which we deduced the following
facts:
(1) Rouletabille had visited the apartment at five o’clock and searched
behind the panel and at that time there was no one in the room.
(2) After five o’clock, the door of the apartment had been twice opened
by Pere Bernier, who alone had the right to open it in the absence of
M. and Mme. Darzac. The first time was at five o’clock to permit M.
Darzac to enter; the next at eleven o’clock to admit M. and Mme. Darzac.
(3) Bernier had locked the door of the apartment when M. Darzac went
out with us between a quarter past and half past six.
(4) The door of the apartment had been locked and bolted by M. Darzac
as soon as he entered his room, both in the afternoon and in the
evening.
(5) Bernier had stood guard before the door of the apartment from five
o’clock till eleven o’clock with a brief interruption of not more than
two minutes at six o’clock.
When we had discussed and fully established these facts, Rouletabille,
who was sitting at M. Darzac’s desk taking notes, arose and said:
“So far, it is very simple. We have only one hope. It is in the few
moments that Bernier was off guard about six o’clock. At least, at that
time, no one was in front of the door. But there was someone behind
it. It was you, M. Darzac. Can you reiterate, after having thoroughly
searched your memory, that when you went into your room, you instantly
closed the door and drew the bolt?”
“I can!” replied M. Darzac, solemnly; and he added: “And I opened that
door only when you and Sainclair knocked upon it. I swear it.”
_And in saying this, as later events proved, the man spoke the
truth._
Rouletabille thanked the Berniers and dismissed them to get some rest.
Then, his voice trembling, the lad said:
“It is well, M. Darzac, you have closed the circle. The apartment in
the Square Tower is now closed as firmly as was the Yellow Room which
was like a strong box, or as the ‘inexplicable gallery.’”
“One would guess immediately that Larsan was mixed up in the affair!” I
exclaimed. “It is the same mode of procedure!”
“Yes,” observed Mme. Darzac. “Yes, M. Sainclair, it is the same mode of
procedure.” And she unfastened her husband’s collar to show the wounds
hidden beneath it.
“See!” she said. “They are the same nail prints. I know them well.”
There was a sorrowful silence.
M. Darzac, caring only to solve this strange problem, reviewed the
crime of the Glandier. And he repeated what he had said in the Yellow
Room:
“There must be a passage in the floor, in the ceiling or in the walls.”
“There is not,” replied Rouletabille.
“Then he must have found some way to make one,” persisted M. Darzac.
“Why?” asked Rouletabille. “Did he do anything of the sort in the
Yellow Room?”
“Oh, this isn’t the same thing at all!” I exclaimed. “This apartment is
more firmly closed than the Yellow Room since no one could have gotten
into it before nor after.”
“No, it is not the same thing,” pronounced Rouletabille. “It is just
the opposite. In the Yellow Room, there was a body missing: in the room
in the Round Tower, there is a body too many.”
And he tottered out, leaning on my arm so as not to fall. The Lady in
Black rushed toward him. He had strength enough left to stop her with a
gesture.
“Oh--this is nothing!” he said. “I’m a little tired, that’s all!”