The bumping into and smashing of small tables, however, is a task that calls for plenty of time, a leisured pursuit; and neither George nor Ashe, a third party having been added to their little affair, felt a desire to stay on and do the thing properly.  Ashe was strongly opposed to being discovered and called on to account for his presence there at that hour; and George, conscious of the tongue and its adjuncts now strewn about the hall, had a similar prejudice against the tedious explanations that detection must involve.

As though by mutual consent each relaxed his grip.  They stood panting for an instant; then, Ashe in the direction where he supposed the green-baize door of the servants’ quarters to be, George to the staircase that led to his bedroom, they went away from that place.

They had hardly done so when Baxter, having disassociated himself from the contents of the table he had upset, began to grope his way toward the electric-light switch, the same being situated near the foot of the main staircase.  He went on all fours, as a safer method of locomotion, though slower, than the one he had attempted before.

Noises began to make themselves heard on the floors above.  Roused by the merry crackle of occasional china, the house party was bestirring itself to investigate.  Voices sounded, muffled and inquiring.

Meantime Baxter crawled steadily on his hands and knees toward the light switch.  He was in much the same condition as one White Hope of the ring is after he has put his chin in the way of the fist of a rival member of the Truck Drivers’ Union.  He knew that he was still alive.  More he could not say.  The mists of sleep, which still shrouded his brain, and the shake-up he had had from his encounter with the table, a corner of which he had rammed with the top of his head, combined to produce a dreamlike state.

And so the Efficient Baxter crawled on; and as he crawled his hand, advancing cautiously, fell on something—­something that was not alive; something clammy and ice-cold, the touch of which filled him with a nameless horror.

To say that Baxter’s heart stood still would be physiologically inexact.  The heart does not stand still.  Whatever the emotions of its owner, it goes on beating.  It would be more accurate to say that Baxter felt like a man taking his first ride in an express elevator, who has outstripped his vital organs by several floors and sees no immediate prospect of their ever catching up with him again.  There was a great cold void where the more intimate parts of his body should have been.  His throat was dry and contracted.  The flesh of his back crawled, for he knew what it was he had touched.

Painful and absorbing as had been his encounter with the table, Baxter had never lost sight of the fact that close beside him a furious battle between unseen forces was in progress.  He had heard the bumping and the thumping and the tense breathing even as he picked occasional china from his person.  Such a combat, he had felt, could hardly fail to result in personal injury to either the party of the first part or the party of the second part, or both.  He knew now that worse than mere injury had happened, and that he knelt in the presence of death.