He let himself into the flat and found there a death-like stillness—­no one about and no sound except the tickings of the large clock in the drawing-room.

He wandered into that horribly impressive place and suddenly sat down on the sofa with a realisation of extreme physical fatigue.  He didn’t know why he was so tired, he had felt quite “bobbish” all the week; suddenly now his limbs were like water, he had a bad ache down his spine and his legs were as heavy as lead.  He sat in a kind of trance on that sofa, he was not asleep, but he was also, quite certainly, not awake.  He wondered why the place was so “beastly still” after all the noise there had been all the week.  There was no one left alive—­every one dead—­except himself and Vera...  Vera...  Vera.

Then he was conscious that some one was looking at him through the double-doors.  At first he didn’t realise who it was, the face was so white and the figure so quiet, then, pulling himself together, he saw that it was the old servant.

“What is it, Andre?” he asked, sitting up.

The old man didn’t answer, but came into the room, carefully closing the door behind him.  Lawrence saw that he was trembling with fright, but was still endeavouring to behave with dignity.

“Barin!  Barin!” he whispered, as though Lawrence were a long way from him.  “Paul Konstantinovitch! (that was Wilderling).  He’s mad....  He doesn’t know what he’s doing.  Oh, sir, stop him, stop him, or we shall all be murdered!”

“What is he doing?” asked Lawrence, standing up.

“In the little hack room,” Andre whispered, as though now he were confiding a terrible secret.  “Come quickly...!”

Lawrence followed him; when he had gone a few steps down the passage he heard suddenly a sharp, muffled report.

“What’s that?”

Andre came close to him, his old, seamed face white like plaster.

“He has a rifle in there...” he said.  “He’s shooting at them!” Then as Lawrence stepped up to the door of the little room that was Wilderling’s dressing-room, Andre caught his arm—.

“Be careful, Barin....  He doesn’t know what he’s about.  He may not recognise you.”

“Oh, that’s all right!” said Lawrence.  He pushed the door open and walked in.  To give for a moment his own account of it:  “You know that room was the rummiest thing.  I’d never been into it before.  I knew the old fellow was a bit of a dandy, but I never expected to see all the pots and jars and glasses there were.  You’d have thought one wouldn’t have noticed a thing at such a time, but you couldn’t escape them,—­his dressing-table simply covered,—­white round jars with pink tops, bottles of hair-oil with ribbons round the neck, manicure things, heaps of silver things, and boxes with Chinese patterns on them, and one thing, open, with what was mighty like rouge in it.  And clothes all over the place—­red silk dressing-gown with golden tassels, and red leather slippers!