Seven o'clock came, and the bright light pouring into the room over
the table covered with loose sheets of paper found me writing still.
I looked up, then back on the page, decided I need not add another
word, flung down my pen, leaned back in my chair, and proceeded to
light up a cigar. "Good!" I thought with lazy satisfaction, as my
eyes wandered over the completely covered table and the drying
sheets upon the floor.
"It was a splendid inspiration that! Had I gone out last night,
infallibly I should have missed it." Just then I heard a blundering,
uncertain step upon the stair, and then a dig in the centre of the
door panel.
I smiled.
"How long will it take him to find the lock, I wonder?" I thought.
The period was protracted. Round and round the keyhole did a shaky,
unsteady hand guide the wandering key. It scratched above, it dug at
the door beneath, while the low indistinct murmur of one repeated
word reached me within. At last, in sheer pity, I got up and opened
the door from the inside. Howard came unsteadily over the threshold,
and half blundered against me. His face was deadly pale; a bright
greenish shade lay close about his bloodshot eyes; his grey lips
shook. With difficulty he staggered to the chair opposite me and sat
down. I shut the door and resumed my seat and cigar.
"Enjoy yourself?" I asked.
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