The Crying of the Man.
As I realised this I rose, and in three steps had crossed the room, seized the handle of the door into the yard, and flung it open before me.
“Prendick, man! Stop!” cried Montgomery, intervening.
A startled deerhound yelped and snarled. There was blood, I saw, in the sink,—brown, and some scarlet,—and I smelt the peculiar smell of carbolic acid. Then through an open doorway beyond, in the dim light of the shadow, I saw something bound painfully upon a framework, scarred, red, and bandaged; and then blotting this out appeared the face of old Moreau, white and terrible. In a moment he had gripped me by the shoulder with a hand that was smeared red, had twisted me off my feet, and flung me headlong back into my own room. He lifted me as though I was a little child. I fell at full length upon the floor, and the door slammed and shut out the passionate intensity of his face. Then I heard the key turn in the lock, and Montgomery’s voice in expostulation.
“Ruin the work of a lifetime,” I heard Moreau say.
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