He was so still that Burleigh could hardly realize that it was all over,
and stood stupidly waiting for him to rise again. Then he took out his
handkerchief as though to wipe the sword, and thinking better of it, put
it back into his pocket again, and threw the weapon on to the floor.

The body of Fletcher lay where it had fallen, the white face turned up to
the gas. In life he had been a commonplace-looking man, not to say
vulgar; now Burleigh, with a feeling of nausea, drew back toward the
door, until the body was hidden by the table, and relieved from the
sight, he could think more clearly. He looked down carefully and
examined his clothes and his boots. Then he crossed the room again, and
with his face averted, turned out the gas. Something seemed to stir in
the darkness, and with a faint cry he blundered toward the door before he
had realized that it was the clock. It struck twelve.

[Illustration: BURLEIGH, WITH A FEELING OF NAUSEA, DREW BACK TOWARD THE
DOOOR.]

He stood at the head of the stairs trying to recover himself; trying to
think. The gas on the landing below, the stairs and the furniture, all
looked so prosaic and familiar that he could not realize what had
occurred. He walked slowly down and turned the light out. The darkness
of the upper part of the house was now almost appalling, and in a sudden
panic he ran down stairs into the lighted hall, and snatching a hat from
the stand, went to the door and walked down to the gate.

Except for one window the neighbouring houses were in darkness, and the
lamps shone tip a silent street. There was a little rain in the air, and
the muddy road was full of pebbles. He stood at the gate trying to screw