There
was nothing to indicate that any one had entered it or left it. The man
who had thought himself the victor stood there with his hands to his
head, an unimaginative person, but suddenly dazed with a curious crowd
of apprehensions. Norris Vine staggered up to his feet, and groped his
way toward the sideboard, where a decanter of brandy was standing.
"Good God!" he muttered to himself, as he poured some of the liquor into
a glass and raised it to his lips. "Are we all mad or bewitched
or what?"
His assailant did not answer. He raised the table-cloth and looked
underneath, retreated into the bedroom, sought in vain for any signs of
an intruder. Then he came slowly back into the sitting-room, and the
eyes of the two men met. Norris Vine was leaning back against the
sideboard, his clothes disarranged, his collar torn, his tie hanging
down in strips. In his shaking hand was the glass of brandy, half
consumed. There was a livid mark upon his face, and his eyes were wide
open and staring.
"My muscular friend," he said, "the ghosts have robbed you."
"Ghosts be d----d!" the other man answered, a little wildly. "I wish
this job were at the bottom of the ocean before I'd touched it.
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