She gave each number with the inexorable regularity of a clock’s reiterated note. "Eleven—twelve—thirteen—fourteen— fifteen—sixteen—seventeen—" In the room every sound was distinct—the rustle of a shifting dress, the grinding of a shoe, the deep, slightly asthmatic breathing of a man. "Twenty-one—twenty-two—twenty-three— twenty-four—twenty-five—twenty-six—" The counting went on, without the slightest variation, with a methodic, rasping reiteration that began to produce almost an hypnotic effect on the imaginations held in suspense. "Thirty—thirty-one—thirty-two—thirty-three—" A slight rasping breath was heard, and then a man nervously clearing his throat. "Thirty-nine—forty—forty-one—forty-two—" Still nothing had happened. No other sound had broken in on the strained attention of every ear. Yet the voice that counted did not vary in the slightest measure; only the sound became less human, more metallic. "Forty-seven—forty-eight—forty-nine— fifty—fifty-one—fifty-two—" A woman had sighed—Mrs. Bloodgood next to him—the sigh of a woman yielding up consciousness to pain. "Fifty-four—fifty-five—fifty-six—fifty-seven —fifty-eight—fifty-nine—sixty—sixty-one—" All at once, clear, ringing, unmistakable, on the sounding plane of the table was heard a quick metallic note that echoed and reëchoed in the empty blackness. "The ring!" It was Maud Lille’s deep voice that had cried out. Beecher suddenly against his shoulder felt the weight of Mrs. Bloodgood’s swaying body. The voice that counted hesitated a moment, but only a moment. "Sixty-two—sixty-three—" Several voices began to protest: "No, no!" "Light the candles!" "It’s too much!" "Don’t go on!" "Seventy-five—seventy-six—seventy-seven— seventy-eight—seventy-nine—" The sound dominated the protest. Some one began to laugh, an hysterical, feverish laughter that chilled Beecher to the bones. He put out his hand and steadied the body of the woman next to him. "Eighty-five—eighty-six—" "Hurry, oh, hurry—please hurry!" cried the voice of Nan Charters, and some one else cried: "Enough—this is terrible!" "Ninety-five—ninety-six—ninety-seven— ninety-eight—ninety-nine, and one hundred." At once a match sputtered in the hands of Slade. There was a cry from every one, and the table shivered with the weight of those who craned forward. Then a second cry of amazement and horror. The table was absolutely bare. The ring a second time had been taken. [Illustration: "In that gay party one person was a thief—but which one? ... A match sputtered. There was a cry of amazement and horror. The table was absolutely bare"] *CHAPTER IV*