He smiled again and looked at her with his calm, certain eyes. “A man does not live in the far Orient for nothing. I know you would. This way,” he said, as the lift-door opened. He led them down a corridor, Quixtus following, a step or two behind, like a man in a trance. The awful moment was at hand, the moment which, in the tea-shop and in the hotel, had seemed far, far distant, hidden in the mists of some unreal devil-land; which at dinner had begun to loom through the mists; which all night long had seemed to grow nearer and nearer with every rhythmic thud of the thundering train, until, at times, it touched him like some material horror. The moment was at hand. At last he was about to fulfil his destiny of evil. His enemy lay dying, the spirit faintly flapping its wings like the butterfly. In a moment they would enter a room. He would behold the dying man. He would curse him and send a blackened, anguished soul into eternity. The dynamo in his brain and the beating of his heart made him fancy that they were walking to the sound of muffled drums. Nearer, nearer. This was real, actual. He was a devil walking to the sound of muffled drums. Poynter and Clementina stopped before a door. Quixtus stood still shaking all over, like a horse in front of a nameless terror. “This is his room,” said Poynter, grasping the handle. Quixtus gave a queer cry and suddenly threw himself forward and clutched Poynter’s arm convulsively, his features distorted with terror. “Wait—wait! I can’t do it! I can’t do it! It’s monstrous!” He leaned up against the wall and closed his eyes. “Overwrought nerves,” whispered Poynter. There happened to be a bench near by, placed for the convenience of the chambermaid of the floor. Clementina made him sit down. “I don’t think you’re quite up to seeing him just now,” she said. He shook his head. “No. Not just now. I feel faint. It’s death. I’m not used to death. You go in. Give him my love. I’ll see him later. But give him my love.” “Very well,” said Clementina. She rapped gently at the door. It was opened and a sister of charity in a great white coif appeared on the threshold. She looked at the visitors sadly. “_C’est fini_,” she whispered. Quixtus staggered to his feet. “Dead?” “_Oui, Monsieur._” The sweat broke out in great drops on his forehead. “Dead!” he repeated. “_Vous pouvez entrer si vous voulez_,” said the sister. Then Quixtus reeled as if some one had dealt him a crushing blow. Poynter saved him from falling and guided him to the seat. For a long, long second all was darkness. The dynamo stopped suddenly. Then, as had happened once before, a little thread seemed to snap in his brain. He opened his eyes feeling sick and giddy. The sister quickly disappeared into the room, and returned with some brandy. The others stood anxiously by. Presently the spirits took effect and enabled him to co-ordinate his faculties. With an effort of will he rose and straightened himself.