First, as he gazed at the prostrate body--the horrid red blotch like a
gay ribbon in the white hair--he thought the small, insistent sound
which seemed to fill the room was the beating of her heart. Then, as
he listened, his ears attuned with fear, he knew it was the ticking of
the watch in the hand of the dead woman.

James Darcy rubbed his eyes, as though to clear them from the fog. He
rubbed them again--he passed his hand before his face as if cobwebs had
drifted there--he touched his ears, which seemed not a part of himself.

"Tick-tick! Tick-tick! Tick-tick!"

The sound seemed to grow louder. It was not her heart!

"Hello! Come here, somebody! Amelia! what's the matter? Sallie!
Sallie Page! Wake up! Hello, somebody! She's dead! Killed! There's
been a murder! I must get the police!"

James Darcy started to cross the room to reach and fling open the front
door leading to the street, that he might call the alarm to others than
the deaf cook, who had not yet come downstairs. Mrs. Darcy's maid had
gone away the previous evening, and was not expected in until noon. It
was too early for any of the jewelry clerks to report. Yet Darcy felt
he must have some one with him.

To cross the store to reach the door meant stepping over the body--the
grotesquely twisted body, with the white, upturned face and the little
spot of red, near where the silver comb had fallen from the silvered
hair. And so Darcy changed his mind--he ran to the side door, fumbled