He turned to the Professor, who was sitting watch in hand, counting the moments. He would have spoken, but the old man’s grim face forbade him. He was waiting. At twelve o’clock the girl had sunk into a slumber so profound, so representative of death, that Wyndham had uttered an exclamation of despair, and had told himself she was indeed struck down by the Destroyer, and now when six o’clock strikes she ought to rise from her strange slumbers if the Professor’s drug possessed the powerful properties attributed to it by its discoverer. As Wyndham stood watching the Professor, a sound smote upon his ear. One! Again the city clock was tolling the hour. The Professor rose; his face was ghastly. One, two, three, four, five, six! Six! The Professor bent down over the girl, and Wyndham went near to him, to be ready to help him when the moment came—when the truth was made clear to him that his discovery had failed. Wyndham himself had long ago given up hope, but he feared for the old man, to whom his discovery had been more than life or love for over twenty years. The Professor still stood peering into the calm face. Six, and no sign, no change! Already the sun’s rays were beginning to peep sharply through the window; there was a slight stir in the street below. Six-thirty, and still the Professor stood gazing on the quiet figure, as motionless as it. Seven o’clock, and still no movement. The face, now lovely in its calm, was as marble, and the limbs lay rigid, the fingers lightly locked. Death, death alone could look like that! Half-past seven! As the remorseless clock recorded the time, the Professor suddenly threw up his arms. ‘She is dead!’ he said. ‘Oh, my God!’ He reeled forward, and the young man caught him in his arms. He was almost insensible, and was gasping for breath. Wyndham carried him into an adjoining room and laid him on a bed, and, finding him cold, covered him with blankets. This, so far as it went, was well enough for the moment, but what was the next step to be? The old man lay gasping, and evidently there was but a short step between his state and that of his victim outside. Yet how to send for a doctor with that victim outside? To the Professor, whose hours were numbered, it would mean little or nothing; but to him, Wyndham, it would mean, if not death, eternal disgrace. He drew a long breath and bent over the Professor, who was now again sensible. ‘Shall I send for Marks or Drewd?’ he asked, naming two of the leading physicians in Dublin. The Professor grasped his arm; his face grew frightful.