the arms out wide open, with the face held up. And when at last he
swung out to this closing gesture I ceased even to breathe. It was
ridiculous, of course, but you know that ghost-story feeling. It was
after dinner, in a queer, old shadowy house. Would he, after all--?

There he stood for one stupendous moment, with his arms open and his
upturned face, assured and bright, in the glare of the hanging lamp.
We hung through that moment as if it were an age, and then came from
all of us something that was half a sigh of infinite relief and half a
reassuring "NO!" For visibly--he wasn't going. It was all nonsense.
He had told an idle story, and carried it almost to conviction, that
was all! . . . And then in that moment the face of Clayton, changed.

It changed. It changed as a lit house changes when its lights are
suddenly extinguished. His eyes were suddenly eyes that were fixed,
his smile was frozen on his lips, and he stood there still. He stood
there, very gently swaying.

That moment, too, was an age. And then, you know, chairs were scraping,
things were falling, and we were all moving. His knees seemed to give,
and he fell forward, and Evans rose and caught him in his arms. . . .

It stunned us all. For a minute I suppose no one said a coherent
thing. We believed it, yet could not believe it. . . . I came out
of a muddled stupefaction to find myself kneeling beside him,
and his vest and shirt were torn open, and Sanderson's hand lay
on his heart. . . .

Well--the simple fact before us could very well wait our convenience;
there was no hurry for us to comprehend. It lay there for an hour;