Certainly, as I turned my head and sprang to my
feet, I was very far from being a cool and collected observer; yet,
indisputably, the chair _had_ turned. Indeed, I snapped my head around
in time to see the last of its movement toward the desk. And at the
same instant my nostrils caught more strongly the sweet and heavy odor
of Peter Magnus' cigar. For a moment all was still. Then Mrs. Magnus
rose and beckoned me forward.
"Come," she said, and with an effort I compelled my feet to follow
her.
It was a battle between instinct and reason. Instinct was trying to
hurl me out of the room and out of the house. Reason was telling
me--in a very faint voice, it is true--that there was nothing to be
afraid of. I have always been proud of the fact that I _did_ approach
the desk, instead of making for the door.
And I was even brave enough to glance behind it. One glance was
sufficient. The triangular space between the walls and the back of
the desk was empty. I don't know why that should have afforded me any
relief, but it did.
Then, before my eyes, not three feet away from them, a little gob of
ashes dropped from the empty air into the tray.
I am free to confess that that sight swept away any remnant of doubt I
may have had in the reality of the unreal--if I may use such a term.
Peter Magnus was sitting in that chair. There could be, to my mind, no
question of it.
But if any doubt had existed, it would have been ended by what
followed.
For my eye was caught by the pad of paper on the desk, and, even as I
watched it, I saw unfold upon it, one after another, these words:
MY DEAR WIFE: Place the money on this desk and leave me.
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