He was not afraid. The long, silent corridor stretched
away into the distance, lighted at intervals by narrow windows
that opened upon an inner court of the palace. Meschini suspended
the coat upon the peg and stood looking before him, a contemptuous
smile upon his face, as though he despised himself for his former
fears. Then he resolutely walked towards the study, along the
familiar way, down a flight of steps, then to the right--he stood
before the door and the dead man was on the other side of it. He
paused and listened. All was silent.
It was clear to him, as he stood before the table and looked at
the body, that no one had been there. Indeed, Meschini now
remembered that it was a rule in the house never to disturb the
prince unless a visitor came. He had always liked to spend the
afternoon in solitude over his accounts and his plans. The
librarian, paused opposite his victim and gazed at the fallen head
and the twisted, whitened fingers. He put out his hand timidly and
touched them, and was surprised to find that they were not quite
cold. The touch, however, sent a very unpleasant thrill through
his own frame, and he drew back quickly with a slight shiver. But
he was not terrified as he had been before. The touch, only, was
disagreeable to him.
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