fact of his trying to entrench himself in his quarters would seem suspicious.  In a few seconds he had restored everything to its place.  The brandy bottles disappeared into the cupboard in the wall; a bit of candle filled the empty candlestick.  He tore off his clothes and jumped into bed, tossing himself about to give it the appearance of having been slept in.  Then he got up again and proceeded to make his toilet.  All his clothes were black, and he had but a slender choice.  He understood vaguely, however, that there would be a funeral or some sort of ceremony in which all the members of the household would be expected to join, and he arrayed himself in the best he had—­a decent suit of broadcloth, a clean shirt, a black tie.  He looked at himself in the cracked mirror.  His face was ghastly yellow, the whites of his eyes injected with blood, the veins at the temples swollen and congested.  He was afraid that his appearance might excite remark, though it was in reality not very much changed.

Then, as he thought of this, he realised that he was to meet a score of persons, some of whom would very probably look at him curiously.  His nerves were in a shattered condition, he almost broke down at the mere idea of what he must face.  What would become of him in the presence of the reality?  And yet he had met the whole household bravely enough on the very spot where he had done the murder on the previous evening.  He sat down, overpowered by the revival of his fear and horror.  The room swam around him and he grasped the edge of the table for support.  But he could not stay there all day.  Any reluctance to make his appearance at such a time might be fatal.  There was only one way to get the necessary courage, and that was to drink again.  He shrank from the thought.  He had not acquired the habitual drunkard’s certainty of finding nerve and boldness and steadiness of hand in the morning draught, and the idea of tasting the liquor was loathsome to him in his disordered state.  He rose to his feet and tried to act as though he were in the midst of a crowd of persons.  Ape-like, he grinned at the furniture, walked about the room, spoke aloud, pretending that he was meeting real people, tried to frame sentences expressive of profound grief.  He opened the door and made a pretence of greeting an imaginary individual.  It was as though a stream of cold water had fallen upon his neck.  His knees knocked together, and he felt sick with fear.  There was evidently no use in attempting to go down without some stimulant.  Almost sorrowfully he shut the door again, and took the bottle from its place.  He took several small doses, patiently testing the effect until his hand was steady and warm.

Ten minutes later he was kneeling with many others before the catafalque, beneath the great canopy of black.  He was dazed by the light of the great branches of candles, and confused by the subdued sound of whispering and of softly treading feet; but he knew that his outward demeanour was calm and collected, and that he exhibited no signs of nervousness.  San Giacinto was standing near one of the doors, having taken his turn with the sons of the dead man to remain in the room.  He watched the librarian and a rough sort of pity made itself felt in his heart.