Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/33

 was stricken with a terror that had its inception in nothing of this earth. The sight of that great hulk of an apparition stooping in the weak moonlight, groping among the books on the floor with those two ghastly stumps affected him as nothing this side of France had ever gripped him. He tried to shout and could emit no word. His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He could not feel his limbs—he had no command over them—it was as if he were a disembodied spirit.

Then he slept again, dreamlessly and heavily.

When he awoke the sun was high and the air in the room seemed stifling. He had a bad taste in his mouth, which shouldn’t have been there as he had behaved himself meticulously the night before, and there was a suggestion of headache. There was a peculiar smell in the air—he could scarcely classify it. It was something of the hospital. He remembered his dream and smiled.

The door opened and Eddie, who had heard him creaking out of bed, entered.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, and stopped to sniff the air.

“Good morning, Eddie. Do you smell it too.”

“Yes sir. It’s chloroform, sir,” replied Eddie. “Did you leave the airshaft window in the living room open, sir?”

“No, why?”

“I found it open this morning, sir,” replied Eddie impassively.

“That’s strange,” reflected Val. “And chloroform ” He leaped up suddenly. “Why, there was somebody here then, Eddie. That was no dream!”

“No sir. It was no dream, sir.”