My own room! Was it mine any longer? Its walls looked strange; the
petty objects of my daily handling, unfamiliar. The change in
myself infected everything I saw. I might have been in another
man's house for all connection these things seemed to have with me
or my life. Like one set apart on an unapproachable shore, I
stretched hands in vain towards all that I had known and all that
had been of value to me.
But as the minutes passed, as the hands of the clock I had hastily
rewound moved slowly round the dial, I began to lose this feeling.
Hope which I thought quite dead slowly revived. Nothing had
happened, and perhaps nothing would. Men had been killed before,
and the slayer passed unrecognised. Why might it not be so in my
case? If the woman continued to remain silent; if for any reason
she had not witnessed the blow or the striker, who else was there
to connect me with an assault committed a quarter of a mile away?
No one knew of the quarrel; and if they did, who could be so
daring as to associate one of my name with an action so brutal? A
judge slay his friend! It would take evidence of a very marked
character to make even my political enemies believe that.
As the twilight deepened I rose from my seat and lit the gas. I
must not be found skulking in the dark. Then I began to count the
ticks measuring off the hour. If thirty minutes more passed
without a rush from without, I might hope. If twenty?--if ten?--
then it was five! then it was--Ah, at last! The gate had clanged
to.
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