He lowered his gasolene torch which he still carried, and the shape resolved itself into the figure of a man; an old man who lay face down on the floor, his arms extended as if they had been arrested while he was in the very act of raising them to his head.

The thick shock of snow-white hair, worn rather long, was discolored just back of the left ear, and from this Mr.Shrimplin's horrified gaze was able to trace another discoloration that crossed in a thin red line the dead man's white collar; for the man was dead past all peradventure.
[Illustration: On the floor at his feet was a strange huddled shape.] Mr.Shrimplin saw and grasped the meaning of it all in an instant.

Then with a feeble cry he turned and fled down the long room, pursued by a million phantom terrors.

His heart seemed to die within him as he scurried down that long room; then, mercifully, the keen fresh air filled his lungs.

He fairly leaped through the open door, and again the storm roared about him with a kind of boisterous fellowship.