At two in the
morning on my birthday I shall see her again, and see her for the last
time."
"Do you mean that she will kill you?"
"I mean that, sir, she will kill me--with the knife."
"And with Rigobert in the room to protect you?"
"I am a doomed man. Fifty Rigoberts couldn't protect me."
"And you wanted somebody to sit up with you?"
"Mere weakness, sir. I don't like to be left alone on my deathbed."
I looked at the surgeon. If he had encouraged me, I should certainly, out
of sheer compassion, have confessed to Francis Raven the trick that we
were playing him. The surgeon held to his experiment; the surgeon's face
plainly said--"No."
The next day (the twenty-ninth of February) was the day of the "Silver
Wedding." The first thing in the morning, I went to Francis Raven's room.
Rigobert met me at the door.
"How has he passed the night?" I asked.
"Saying his prayers, and looking for ghosts," Rigobert answered. "A
lunatic asylum is the only proper place for him."
I approached the bedside. "Well, Francis, here you are, safe and sound, in
spite of what you said to me last night."
His eyes rested on mine with a vacant, wondering look.
"I don't understand it," he said.
"Did you see anything of your wife when the clock struck two?"
"No, sir."
"Did anything happen?"
"Nothing happened, sir.
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