It was useless to argue with him, so I took down the manuscript entitled Imperial Dynasty of America for the last time I should ever take it down in Mr. Wilde’s study. I read it through, thrilling and trembling with pleasure. When I had finished, Mr. Wilde took the manuscript, and, turning to the dark passage which leads from his study to his bedchamber, called out, in a loud voice, “Vance.” Then for the first time I noticed a man crouching there in the shadow. How I had overlooked him during my search for the cat I cannot imagine.
“Vance, come in!” cried Mr. Wilde.
The figure rose and crept towards us, and I shall never forget the face that he raised to mine as the light from the window illuminated it.
“Vance, this is Mr. Castaigne,” said Mr. Wilde. Before he had finished speaking, the man threw himself on the ground before the table, crying and gasping, “Oh, God! Oh, my God! Help me! Forgive me Oh, Mr. Castaigne, keep that man away! You cannot, you cannot mean it! You are different save me! I am broken down I was in a madhouse, and now when all was coming right when I had forgotten the King the King in Yellow, and but I shall go mad again I shall go mad ”
His voice died into a choking rattle, for Mr. Wilde had leaped on him, and his right hand encircled the man’s throat. When Vance fell in a heap on the floor, Mr. Wilde clambered nimbly into his chair again, and, rubbing his mangled ears with the stump of his hand, turned to me and asked me for the ledger. I reached it down from the shelf and he opened it. After a moment’s searching among the beautifully written pages, he coughed complacently and pointed to the name Vance.
