He knelt down by her side.

"Kitty," he said quietly. "Try and get up. I'm sorry if I hurt
you, but you took me by surprise. I--I--"

But there came no word, no moan even, in answer.

He felt for her limp hand, and held it a moment, but it lay in his,
inertly. Filled with a queer, growing fear, he struck a match,
bent down, and saw, for the first time that night, her face. It
looked older, incredibly older, than when he had last seen it, five
years ago! The hair near the temples had turned gray. Her eyes
were wide open--and even as he looked earnestly into her face,
her jaw suddenly dropped. He started back with an extraordinary
feeling of mingled fear and repugnance.

Striking match after match as he went, he rushed up again into his
chambers, and looked about for a hand mirror.... He failed to find
one, and at last he brought down his shaving glass.

With shaking hands he laid it close against that hideous, gaping
mouth, for five long dragging minutes. The glass remained clear,
untarnished.

Putting a great constraint on himself, he forced himself to move
her head. And the truth came to him! In that strange short fall
Kitty had broken her neck. For the second time he was free. But
this time her death, instead of cutting a knot, bound him as with
cords of twisted steel to shame, and yes, to deadly peril.