II

MIDNIGHT AND MR. KING


Leroux clutched at the corner of the writing-table to steady himself
and stood there looking at the deathly face. Under the most favorable
circumstances, he was no man of action, although in common with the rest
of his kind he prided himself upon the possession of that presence of
mind which he lacked. It was a situation which could not have alarmed
"Martin Zeda," but it alarmed, immeasurably, nay, struck inert with
horror, Martin Zeda's creator.

Then, in upon Leroux's mental turmoil, a sensible idea intruded itself.

"Dr. Cumberly!" he muttered. "I hope to God he is in!"

Without touching the recumbent form upon the chesterfield, without
seeking to learn, without daring to learn, if she lived or had died,
Leroux, the tempo of his life changed to a breathless gallop, rushed
out of the study, across the entrance hail, and, throwing wide the flat
door, leapt up the stair to the flat above--that of his old friend, Dr.
Cumberly.

The patter of the slippered feet grew faint upon the stair; then, as
Leroux reached the landing above, became inaudible altogether.

In Leroux's study, the table-clock ticked merrily on, seeming to hasten
its ticking as the hand crept around closer and closer to midnight.