H. B. Marriott Watson

“ For a second he looked into Derracott's eyes. Each had a confession of suicide in his pocket, and it needed but an instantaneous turn of the wrist, and this smiling devil had exchanged fates with him. Harland wavered for a breath of time; and then, clapping the barrel to his heart, pulled the trigger.
The body sank in a heap at Derracott's feet. He watched it huddle limply among the damp and yellow leaves; noted its open eyes and its pallid moonlit face. A stain of blood rested on the lips. He bent over the dead man: his pulse throbbed riotously. ”

“ Harland made no answer, but took his station in the open; Derracott put his back against a leafless ash and waited. The moon struck full upon his face; his eyes moved restlessly; his lips whispered inaudibly. The faint sound of a remote clock rose from a distance and vibrated on the stillness. Harland steadied his arm before him, but Derracott stirred not. A moment intervened of dreadful silence—to Harland a space of hours; and then a heavy bell boomed from the clock tower of the church. A pistol cracked, and a withered branch snapped on the ash by Derracott's head. ”

“ But it was upon the woman that Derracott's glance fell first. She kept her seat, crouched in the hollow of a large armchair, her face rigid to her lips, her chin twitching to her short breaths, her eyes wild and staring. Mortal terror never sat upon features so spectral; meaningless noises issued from her mouth. Derracott, his cheeks blanched, his muscles strung as upon wires, stepped into the room, and upon this company.
'I have surprised you, my dear,' he said quietly. 'Ah, Harland!' and he nodded to the man. ”