d, my face covered with my hands, trying to think coherently.
Twenty-four hours before I had been one of the happiest men in England.
Nothing had troubled me. I had lived _for_ my art and _in_ my art, and I
believe I can confidently say that I had not an enemy in the world. Now,
in a single hour, my whole life was changed. I had been drawn into the
toils of a fiend in human shape and I was paying the awful penalty.

Hour after hour went by. My servant arrived and presently brought in my
breakfast, but I put it aside; I had too much upon my mind to eat. It
was in vain I tried to force myself. My food stuck in my throat and
defied me. And all the time I was oppressed by the diabolical picture of
that murder. The shop in which it had occurred was one with which I was
familiar. In my mind's eye I saw the whole scene as clearly as if I had
been present at the time. I saw the shop, filled to overflowing with
bric-a-brac, the light of the single gas-lamp reflected in a hundred
varieties of brass and pottery work. At a desk in the corner sat the
dealer himself, and before him, holding him in earnest conversation, the
extraordinary figure of Pharos the Assassin. How he came to be there at
such an hour I could not tell, but from what I knew of him I was
convinced it was with no good purpose. I could imagine how off his guard
and totally unprepared for attack the other would be; and, even if he
had entertained any suspicions, it is extremely doubtful whether he
would have credited this deformed atom with the possession, either of
such malignity or of such giant strength. Then that same cruel light
that had exercised such an influence upon me a few hours before began to
glisten in the murderer's eyes. Little by little he moved his right hand
behind him until it touched an Oriental dagger lying on a table beside
which he stood. Then, with that cat-like spring which I had good reason
to remember, he leaped upon his opponent and seized him by the throat,
driving the blade deep in below the shoulder. His victim, paralyzed with
surprise, at first offered no resistance. Then, with the instinct of
self-preservation, he began to struggle with his devilish opponent, only
to discover the strength that seemingly attenuated form possessed.
Little by little his power departed from him, and at last, with a crash,
he fell back upon the floor. I pictured Pharos stooping over him to see
if he were dead, chuckling with delight at the success he had ac