A queer tingling, like the sting of a thousand tiny electric needles
prickled through my veins, for even before I stooped and laid my hand on
that barrier which was so heavy and yet so soft as it stopped my path, I
knew what it would prove to be.
It was as if I could see through the dark, to what it hid. But though
there was no surprise left, there was a shock of horror as my fingers
touched an arm, a throat, an upturned face. And my fingers were wet, as
I knew my boots must be. And I knew, too, with what they were wet.
I'm ashamed to say that, after the first shock of the discovery, my
impulse was to get away, and out of the whole business, in which, for
reasons which concerned others even more than myself, it would be
unpleasant to be involved, just at this time especially. I could go
downstairs now, past the sleeping concierge, and with luck no one need
ever know that I had been in this dark room of death.
But as quickly as the impulse came, it went. I must stop here and search
for the treaty, no matter what happened, until I had found it or made
sure it was not to be found; I must not think of escape. If there were
matches in the room, well and good; if not, I must go elsewhere for
them, and come back.
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