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- Стр. 105/164
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There
was
a
stifled
groan
,
and
the
horrible
sound
of
someone
choking
with
blood
.
Three
times
the
outstretched
arms
shot
up
convulsively
,
waving
grotesque
stiff-fingered
hands
in
the
air
.
He
stabbed
him
twice
more
,
but
the
man
did
not
move
.
Something
began
to
trickle
on
the
floor
.
He
waited
for
a
moment
,
still
pressing
the
head
down
.
Then
he
threw
the
knife
on
the
table
,
and
listened
.
He
could
hear
nothing
but
the
drip
,
drip
on
the
threadbare
carpet
.
He
opened
the
door
and
went
out
on
the
landing
.
The
house
was
absolutely
quiet
.
No
one
was
about
.
For
a
few
seconds
he
stood
bending
over
the
balustrade
,
and
peering
down
into
the
black
seething
well
of
darkness
.
Then
he
took
out
the
key
and
returned
to
the
room
,
locking
himself
in
as
he
did
so
.
The
thing
was
still
seated
in
the
chair
,
straining
over
the
table
with
bowed
head
,
and
humped
back
,
and
long
fantastic
arms
.
Had
it
not
been
for
the
red
jagged
tear
in
the
neck
,
and
the
clotted
black
pool
that
was
slowly
widening
on
the
table
,
one
would
have
said
that
the
man
was
simply
asleep
.
How
quickly
it
had
all
been
done
!
He
felt
strangely
calm
,
and
,
walking
over
to
the
window
,
opened
it
,
and
stepped
out
on
the
balcony
.
The
wind
had
blown
the
fog
away
,
and
the
sky
was
like
a
monstrous
peacock
's
tail
,
starred
with
myriads
of
golden
eyes
.
He
looked
down
,
and
saw
the
policeman
going
his
rounds
and
flashing
the
long
beam
of
his
lantern
on
the
doors
of
the
silent
houses
.
The
crimson
spot
of
a
prowling
hansom
gleamed
at
the
corner
,
and
then
vanished
.
A
woman
in
a
fluttering
shawl
was
creeping
slowly
by
the
railings
,
staggering
as
she
went
.
Now
and
then
she
stopped
,
and
peered
back
.
Once
,
she
began
to
sing
in
a
hoarse
voice
.
The
policeman
strolled
over
and
said
something
to
her
.
She
stumbled
away
,
laughing
.
A
bitter
blast
swept
across
the
Square
.
The
gas-lamps
flickered
,
and
became
blue
,
and
the
leafless
trees
shook
their
black
iron
branches
to
and
fro
.
He
shivered
,
and
went
back
,
closing
the
window
behind
him
.
Having
reached
the
door
,
he
turned
the
key
,
and
opened
it
.
He
did
not
even
glance
at
the
murdered
man
.
He
felt
that
the
secret
of
the
whole
thing
was
not
to
realise
the
situation
.
The
friend
who
had
painted
the
fatal
portrait
to
which
all
his
misery
had
been
due
,
had
gone
out
of
his
life
.
That
was
enough
.
Then
he
remembered
the
lamp
.
It
was
a
rather
curious
one
of
Moorish
workmanship
,
made
of
dull
silver
inlaid
with
arabesques
of
burnished
steel
,
and
studded
with
coarse
turquoises
.
Perhaps
it
might
be
missed
by
his
servant
,
and
questions
would
be
asked
.
He
hesitated
for
a
moment
,
then
he
turned
back
and
took
it
from
the
table
.
He
could
not
help
seeing
the
dead
thing
.
How
still
it
was
!
How
horribly
white
the
long
hands
looked
!
It
was
like
a
dreadful
wax
image
.
Having
locked
the
door
behind
him
,
he
crept
quietly
downstairs
.
The
woodwork
creaked
,
and
seemed
to
cry
out
as
if
in
pain
.
He
stopped
several
times
,
and
waited
.
No
:
everything
was
still
.
It
was
merely
the
sound
of
his
own
footsteps
.
When
he
reached
the
library
,
he
saw
the
bag
and
coat
in
the
corner
.
They
must
be
hidden
away
somewhere
.
He
unlocked
a
secret
press
that
was
in
the
wainscoting
,
a
press
in
which
he
kept
his
own
curious
disguises
,
and
put
them
into
it
.
He
could
easily
burn
them
afterwards
.
Then
he
pulled
out
his
watch
.
It
was
twenty
minutes
to
two
.
