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318 Instantly a brilliant band of light shot across the room, wavered, wagged to and fro—then settled upon Godfrey bending above some shapeless object on the floor.

“What is it?” I cried, running to him, shivering with horror.

“It’s Tremaine,” and he knelt on the floor and stripped back the clothing from the breast “He’s dead,” he added after a moment.

“Dead? But why? How?”

He was in pajamas—I can see them yet—striped blue and white…

Then I heard Godfrey’s voice again.

“My God!” he was saying, with an accent of utter horror. “My God! Bring the light closer, Simmonds!”

I looked down, too. The face was in bright relief now—but was it Tremaine? Could it be Tremaine? That staring, distorted thing, with wide-open mouth? Then my eyes fell on the hand, clasped across the breast…

“What is it?” I asked again, inarticulately, frozen with dread. “What has happened?”

I saw Godfrey stand erect with a sudden movement of loathing.

“It’s the fer-de-lance!” he said hoarsely. “He’s been bitten by it. And it’s still loose in the room somewhere!”