It began to look bad for this man, if indeed he were the one we had seen under the street-lamp; and, as George and I reviewed the situation, we felt our position to be serious enough for us severally to set down our impressions of this man before we lost our first vivid idea.  I do not know what George wrote, for he sealed his words up as soon as he had finished writing, but this is what I put on paper while my memory was still fresh and my excitement unabated: 

He had the look of a man of powerful intellect and determined will, who shudders while he triumphs; who outwardly washes his hands of a deed over which he inwardly gloats.  This was when he first rose from the snow.  Afterwards he had a moment of fear; plain, human, everyday fear.  But this was evanescent.  Before he had turned to go, he showed the self-possession of one who feels himself so secure, or is so well-satisfied with himself, that he is no longer conscious of other emotions.

“Poor fellow,” I commented aloud, as I folded up these words; “he reckoned without you, George.  By to-morrow he will be in the hands of the police.”

“Poor fellow?” he repeated.  “Better say ‘Poor Miss Challoner!’ They tell me she was one of those perfect women who reconcile even the pessimist to humanity and the age we live in.  Why any one should want to kill her is a mystery; but why this man should —­There! no one professes to explain it.  They simply go by the facts.  To-morrow surely must bring strange revelations.”

And with this sentence ringing in my mind, I lay down and endeavoured to sleep.  But it was not till very late that rest came.  The noise of passing feet, though muffled beyond their wont, roused me in spite of myself.  These footsteps might be those of some late arrival, or they might be those of some wary detective intent on business far removed from the usual routine of life in this great hotel.

I recalled the glimpse I had had of the writing-room in the early evening, and imagined it as it was with Miss Challoner’s body removed and the incongruous flitting of strange and busy figures across its fatal floors, measuring distances and peering into corners, while hundreds slept above and about them in undisturbed repose.

Then I thought of him, the suspected and possibly guilty one.  In visions over which I had little if any control, I saw him in all the restlessness of a slowly dying down excitement—­the surroundings strange and unknown to me, the figure not—­seeking for quiet; facing the past; facing the future; knowing, perhaps, for the first time in his life what it was for crime and remorse to murder sleep.  I could not think of him as lying still—­slumbering like the rest of mankind, in the hope and expectation of a busy morrow.  Crime perpetrated looms so large in the soul, and this man had a soul as big as his body; of that I was assured.  That its instincts were cruel and inherently evil, did not lessen its capacity for suffering.  And he was suffering now; I could not doubt it, remembering the lovely face and fragrant memory of the noble woman he had, under some unknown impulse, sent to an unmerited doom.