By the empty bed sat Nurse Kennedy, as my eyes had last seen her, sitting bolt upright in the arm-chair beside the bed.  She had placed a pillow behind her, so that her back might be erect; but her neck was fixed as that of one in a cataleptic trance.  She was, to all intents and purposes, turned into stone.  There was no special expression on her face—­no fear, no horror; nothing such as might be expected of one in such a condition.  Her open eyes showed neither wonder nor interest.  She was simply a negative existence, warm, breathing, placid; but absolutely unconscious of the world around her.  The bedclothes were disarranged, as though the patient had been drawn from under them without throwing them back.  The corner of the upper sheet hung upon the floor; close by it lay one of the bandages with which the Doctor had dressed the wounded wrist.  Another and another lay further along the floor, as though forming a clue to where the sick man now lay.  This was almost exactly where he had been found on the previous night, under the great safe.  Again, the left arm lay toward the safe.  But there had been a new outrage, an attempt had been made to sever the arm close to the bangle which held the tiny key.  A heavy “kukri” knife—­one of the leaf-shaped knives which the Gurkhas and others of the hill tribes of India use with such effect—­had been taken from its place on the wall, and with it the attempt had been made.  It was manifest that just at the moment of striking, the blow had been arrested, for only the point of the knife and not the edge of the blade had struck the flesh.  As it was, the outer side of the arm had been cut to the bone and the blood was pouring out.  In addition, the former wound in front of the arm had been cut or torn about terribly, one of the cuts seemed to jet out blood as if with each pulsation of the heart.  By the side of her father knelt Miss Trelawny, her white nightdress stained with the blood in which she knelt.  In the middle of the room Sergeant Daw, in his shirt and trousers and stocking feet, was putting fresh cartridges into his revolver in a dazed mechanical kind of way.  His eyes were red and heavy, and he seemed only half awake, and less than half conscious of what was going on around him.  Several servants, bearing lights of various kinds, were clustered round the doorway.

As I rose from my chair and came forward, Miss Trelawny raised her eyes toward me.  When she saw me she shrieked and started to her feet, pointing towards me.  Never shall I forget the strange picture she made, with her white drapery all smeared with blood which, as she rose from the pool, ran in streaks toward her bare feet.  I believe that I had only been asleep; that whatever influence had worked on Mr. Trelawny and Nurse Kennedy—­and in less degree on Sergeant Daw—­had not touched me.  The respirator had been of some service, though it had not kept off the tragedy whose dire evidences were before me.  I can understand now—­I