Ham was all for knowing the contents of this letter, but I refused to
communicate a word of it. I was dazed, I was more than ever perplexed,
I was appalled by the frenzy of Zaleski. Friday night! It was then
Thursday morning. And I was expected to wait through the dreary
interval uncertain, agonised, inactive! I was offended with my friend;
his conduct bore the interpretation of mental distraction. The leaden
hours passed all oppressively while I sought to appease the keenness of
my unrest with the anodyne of drugged sleep. On the next morning,
however, another letter--a rather massive one--reached me. The covering
was directed in the writing of Zaleski, but on it he had scribbled the
words: 'This need not be opened unless I fail to reappear before
Saturday.' I therefore laid the packet aside unread.

I waited all through Friday, resolved that at six o'clock, if nothing
happened, I should make some sort of effort. But from six I remained,
with eyes strained towards the doorway, until ten. I was so utterly at
a loss, my ingenuity was so entirely baffled by the situation, that I
could devise no course of action which did not immediately appear
absurd. But at midnight I sprang up--no longer would I endure the
carking suspense. I seized a taper, and passed through the door-way. I
had not proceeded far, however, when my light was extinguished. Then I
remembered with a shudder that I should have to pass through the whole
vast length of the building in order to gain an exit. It was an all but
hopeless task in the profound darkness to thread my way through the
labyrinth of halls and corridors, of tumble-down stairs, of bat-haunted
vaults, of purposeless angles and involutions; but I proceeded with
something of a blind obstinacy, groping my way with arms held out
before me. In this manner I had wandered on for perhaps a quarter of an
hour, when my fingers came into distinct momentary contact with what
felt like cold and humid human flesh. I shrank back, unnerved as I