He lay down again quietly, and from time to time his lips moved, whether in imprecation or prayer it was hard to say; but it struck Stanistreet that Tyson's mind had veered again to the orthodoxy of terror.
There was silence overhead too.

They were putting her under chloroform.
Another hour and the window-panes glimmered as if a tissue of liquid air were spread between them and the darkness.

There was a break in the night outside, a livid streak of dawn; the objects in the room took curious unintelligible shapes, the billiard-table in its white cloth became a monstrous bed, a bier, a gleaming mausoleum.

And with the dawn Tyson on his sofa had dropped into a doze, and thence into a sleep.

The night's orgy of emotion had left his features in a curious moral disarray; once or twice a sort of bubbling murmur rose to his lips.