Disgusted, she slipped from bed and left him, leaving a
chilly space where she had warmly lain.
Mr. Marrapit shivered; felt for Sleep; found her gone; with a start
sat upright.
The breakwater gone, that wash of sound which had lapped around his
senses rushed in upon them. Lingering traces of the touch of Sleep
still offered resistance--a droning hum. The wash surged over, poured
about him--_VOICES_!
Mr. Marrapit violently cleared his throat. The voices continued.
Violently again. They still continued. Tremendously a third time. They
yet continued. From this he argued that they could not be very close
to his door. Intently he listened, then located them--they came from
the garden. He felt for the bell-push that carried to Mr. Fletcher's
room; put his thumb upon it; steadily pressed.
Sleep toyed no tricks in Mr. Fletcher's bed. Like some wanton mistress
discovered in the very act of betrayal, she at the first tearing
clamour of the electric bell bounded from the sheets, scuttled from
the room.
"Rapine!" cried Mr. Fletcher; plunged his head beneath the bedclothes
and wrestled in prayer.
The strident gong faltered not nor failed. Steady and penetrating it
dinned its hideous call. Mr. Fletcher waited for screams. None came.
He pushed the sheet between his chattering teeth, listened for
cudgelling and heavy falls.
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