s scaly, with many short fat legs tipped with
claws; that its color was green, that its purpose was hideous, gleaming
in craft from large, square, green-yellow eyes. He wiped the sticky
sweat from his brow. "It's only the brandy," he said loudly, and the
Thing faded, vanished. He drew a deep breath of relief.

He went to a case of drawers and stood before it, supporting himself by
the handles of the second drawer. "Yes," he reflected, "the revolver's
in that drawer." He released the handles and staggered back to his
chair. "I'm crazy," he muttered, "crazy as a loon. I ought to ring
for the doctor."

In a moment he was up again, but instead of going toward the bell he
went to the drawers and opened the second one. In a compartment lay a
pearl-handled, self-cocking revolver. He put his hand on it, shivered,
drew his hand away--the steel and the pearl were cold. He closed the
drawer with a quick push, opened it again slowly, took up the revolver,
staggered over to his desk and laid it there. His face was chalk-white
in spots and his eyes were stiff in their sockets. He rested his
aching, burning, reeling head on his hands and stared at the revolver.

"But," he said aloud, as if contemptuously dismissing a suggestion,
"why should I shoot myself? I can smash 'em all--to powder--grind 'em
into the dirt."

He took up the revolver. "What'd be the use of smashing 'em?" he said
wearily. He felt tired and sick, horribly sick.

He laid it down. "I'd better be careful," he thought. "I'm not in my
right mind. I might--"

He took it in his hand and went to the mirror and put the muzzle
against his temple. He laughed crazily. "A little pressure on that
trigger and--bang! I'd be in kingdom come and shouldn't give a damn
for anybody." He caught sight of his eyes in the mirror and hastily
dropped his arm to his side. "No, I'd never shoot myself in the
temple. The heart'd be better. Just here"--and he pressed the muzzle
into the soft material of his coat--"if I touched the trigger--"

And his finger did touch the trigger. Pains shot through his chest
like cracks radiating in glass when a stone strikes it. He looked at
his face--white, with wild eyes, with lips blue and ajar, the sweat
streaming from his forehead.

"What have I done?" he shrieked, mad with the dread of death. "I must
call for help." He turned toward the door, plunged forward, fell
unconscious, the revolver flung half-way across the room.