move--I----"

And then he screamed, though but a whisper fell, as with a spasmodic
jump of his whole body he flung himself round in his chair, and
cowering low against the arm, peered into the deepening shadows.

"All round about me," he whispered, "all about me those hands are
pulling, and yet--and--and----"

He laughed until his face, a white cameo against a grey velvet pall,
grinned like a mask of mirthless death, as slowly he raised one
clenched fist and shook it weakly until it fell back with a dull thud,
useless, against the chair.

"I thought I was afraid--I--I thought I saw--I saw death behind--but
I--I shall not die until--until I have written--written--what is it I
am to write--ah! yes!"

Searching sideways with his left hand he groped and found the pen, then
very carefully, very slowly turned towards the desk.

He drove the pen in fiercely, making a thick black mark; he pushed it
until the nib stuck, spluttered, and broke as he flung out both hands
as if grasping at something which evaded him.

"Gone!" he mouthed, though there was no sound of speech in the room.
"Gone--gone!" and he suddenly tore at his collar and his cuffs as
though to break some bond which held him, as he glanced furtively about
the room.