It seemed
strange that there was no movement or reply to his shouting. But it no
longer seemed strange when at length he turned, in the full glare of the
gas, and saw the old man lying huddled up into a ghastly heap on the
bed, his throat cut across from ear to ear.
And all over the carpet lay new dollar bills, crisp and clean like those
he had left downstairs, and strewn about in little heaps.
For a moment Blake stood stock-still, bereft of all power of movement.
The next, his courage returned, and he fled from the room and dashed
downstairs, taking five steps at a time. He reached the bottom and tore
along the passage to his room, determined at any rate to seize the man
and prevent his escape till help came.
But when he got to the end of the little landing he found that his door
had been closed. He seized the handle, fumbling with it in his violence.
It felt slippery and kept turning under his fingers without opening the
door, and fully half a minute passed before it yielded and let him in
headlong.
At the first glance he saw the room was empty, and the man gone!
Scattered upon the carpet lay a number of the bills, and beside them,
half hidden under the sofa where the man had sat, he saw a pair of
gloves--thick, leathern gloves--and a butcher's knife.
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