All was still. He went back to the books.
There was nothing to be done but to make a desperate effort to
occupy himself and to steady his nerves. If any one came now, he
thought, his face would betray him. There must be a light in his
eyes, an uncertainty in his manner which would speak plainly
enough to his guilt. He tried to imagine what would take place
when the body was found. Some one would enter the room and would
see the body. He, or she, would perhaps think that the prince was
in a fit, or asleep--who could tell? But he would not answer the
voice that called him. Then the person would come forward and
touch him--Meschini forced himself to think of it--would touch the
dead hand and would feel that it was cold. With a cry of horror
the person would hasten from the room. He might hear that cry, if
he left the door open. Again he laid his hand upon the latch. His
fingers seemed paralysed and the cold sweat stood on his face, but
he succeeded in mastering himself enough to turn the handle and
look out. The cry came, but it was from his own lips. He reeled
back from the entrance in horror, his eyes starting from his head.
There stood the dead man, in the dusky passage, shaking at him the
handkerchief.
It was only his fancy.
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