Tony was in the room! Yes, Tony. How was he there? Never mind! He would help him! “Tony! Tony! They’re doing for me!” Tony was all over the room. He pulled himself together, and suddenly fell against the knob of the door. They fell against it together. He hit at the other’s naked body, hit at it again and again. Strength seemed to pour back into his body in a flood. He had been nearly on his knees, but now he was pressing up again. He snatched at the hand about his neck and tore it away. Again they were surging about the room. His hand was upon the door. Morelli’s hands were about his and tried to drag it away, but he clung. For an age they seemed to hang there, panting, heaving, clutching. Then he had turned it. The door flew open and his foot lunged out behind him. He kicked with all his force, but he touched nothing. There was nothing there. He looked back. The door was open. There was a grey light over the room. Something was muttering, making a noise like a dog over a bone. He could hear the ticking of the clock through the open door; it struck nine. There was perfect stillness; no one was near him. Then silently, trembling in every limb, he crept down the stairs. In a moment he was in the street. CHAPTER XIX NIGHT OF THE TWENTY-SEVENTH—MARADICK AND MRS. LESTER But the gods had not yet done with his night. As the sharp night air met him he realised that his clothes were torn apart and that his chest was bare. He pulled his shirt about him again, stupidly made movements with his hand as though he would brush back the hair from his eyes, and then found that it was blood that was trickling from a wound in his forehead. That seemed to touch something in him, so that he suddenly leaned against the wall and, with his head in his arm, began to cry. There was no reason really why he should cry; in fact, he didn’t want to cry—it was like a woman to cry. He repeated it stupidly to himself, “like a woman, like a woman. . . .” Then he began slowly to fling himself together, as it were; to pick up the bits and to feel that he, Maradick, still existed as a personal identity. He pulled his clothes about him and looked at the dark house. It was absolutely silent; there were no lights anywhere. What had happened? Was Morelli looking at him now from some dark corner, watching him from behind some black window?