It was about
halfpast eight when I left the apartment. I had only gone a few blocks
when I returned for something I had forgotten. I was in my bedroom when
I heard the hall door open stealthily. I switched off the bedroom light
instantly, and slipped into the clothes closet, leaving the door just
ajar. I knew, of course, that if it were another attack directed against
me, it was one that was prearranged and that was being made on the
presumption that I was out and that the apartment was empty. There was
silence for a moment or two, then a step crossed the threshold of the
bedroom, and the light went on. It was Clarke. There was a little night
table beside the bed on which my maid, before she had gone out, had
placed as usual a carafe of ice water and a small tray of biscuits.
Clarke was evidently very well acquainted with this fact. He stepped at
once to the table, took a vial from his pocket, poured the contents into
the carafe--and the next instant the room was in darkness again, and
Clarke was gone. I acted as quickly as I could. I dared not move or give
any sign of my presence until he was out of the apartment, for I would
have accomplished nothing except my death.
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