only know that my hesitation vanished. That prepared plan so strangely matured, yet hidden so deeply that it emerged only step by step as it was needed, pushed up another move into my upper mind.
I got slowly out of bed. Perspiration broke out all over me. I felt very weak. The wound stretched. Straight before me, a long way off it seemed, was the sofa. Boyde stood watching my every move. He stood like a statue.
Before I had taken a couple of slow, small steps, crawling round the edge of the bed, he did two quick things that in a flash brought final conviction to me, so that I knew beyond any doubt the hideous thing was true: he moved suddenly across the room, passing in front of me, though not near enough to touch; three rapid strides and he was against the window--with his back to the light. It was dusk. He wished to conceal his face from me. His left arm hung at his side, the hand on a level with the dressing-table, and I saw his fingers feeling along its surface, though his eyes never left my own. I saw them find, then grip, the white-handled razor, and pull it slowly towards him. These were the two things that betrayed him, but chiefly, I think, the first of them--concealing his face.
At the same instant there was a faint sound on my left. I had completely forgotten the existence of my visitor; I now remembered him, for that sound came from inside the cupboard, and Grant, evidently, was ready to leap out. But I did not want Grant. I intended the whole matter to be between Boyde and myself. A flash of understanding had given me complete assurance. Boyde, I now knew, was a coward, a sneak, a cheat, a liar, and worse besides. In spite of my physical weakness I had the upper hand. I was about to give him the fright of his life, though still with no clear idea exactly how this was to be accomplished. All I knew was that I meant to terrify him, then forgive--and save him from himself.
"Not yet!" I called out, yet so quickly, and with so
little apparent meaning, that Boyde, I think, hardly heard
