Markheim, smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. But no! he
lay quite still; he was fled away far beyond earshot of these blows
and shoutings; he was sunk beneath seas of silence; and his name,
which would once have caught his notice above the howling of a storm,
had become an empty sound. And presently the jovial gentleman desisted
from his knocking and departed.
Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be done, to get forth
from, this accusing neighborhood, to plunge into a bath of London
multitudes, and to reach, on the other side of day, that haven of
safety and apparent, innocence---his bed. One visitor had come: at
any moment it another might follow and be more obstinate. To have
done the deed, and yet not to reap the profit, would be too abhorrent
a failure. The money, that was now Markheim's concern: and as a means
to that, the keys.
He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where the shadow was
still lingering and shivering; and with no conscious repugnance of the
mind, yet with a tremor of the belly, he drew near the body of his
victim. The human character had quite departed. Like a suit
half-stuffed with bran, the limbs lay scattered, the trunk doubled, on
the floor; and yet the thing repelled him. Although so dingy and
inconsiderable to the eye, he feared it might have more significance
to the touch. He took the body by the shoulders, and turned it on its
back.
Pages:
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291