The bet (part 3)

He felt in the darkness for the steps and the door, and went into the entry of the

lodge. Then he groped his way into a little passage and lighted a match. There was

not a soul there. There was a bedstead with no bedding on it, and in the corner

there was a dark cast-iron stove. The seals on the door leading to the prisoner's

rooms were intact.

When the match went out the old man, trembling with emotion, peeped through

the little window. A candle was burning dimly in the prisoner's room. He was

sitting at the table. Nothing could be seen but his back, the hair on his head, and

his hands. Open books were lying on the table, on the two easy-chairs, and on the

carpet near the table.

Five minutes passed and the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteen years'

imprisonment had taught him to sit still. The banker tapped at the window with his

finger, and the prisoner made no movement whatever in response. Then the

banker cautiously broke the seals off the door and put the key in the keyhole. The

rusty lock gave a grating sound and the door creaked. The banker expected to

hear at once footsteps and a cry of astonishment, but three minutes passed and it

was as quiet as ever in the room. He made up his mind to go in.

At the table a man unlike ordinary people was sitting motionless. He was a

skeleton with the skin drawn tight over his bones, with long curls like a woman's

and a shaggy beard. His face was yellow with an earthy tint in it, his cheeks were

hollow, his back long and narrow, and the hand on which his shaggy head was

propped was so thin and delicate that it was dreadful to look at it. His hair was

already streaked with silver, and seeing his emaciated, aged-looking face, no one

would have believed that he was only forty. He was asleep. . . . In front of his

bowed head there lay on the table a sheet of paper on which there was something

written in fine handwriting.

"Poor creature!" thought the banker, "he is asleep and most likely dreaming of the

millions. And I have only to take this half-dead man, throw him on the bed, stifle

him a little with the pillow, and the most conscientious expert would find no sign of

a violent death. But let us first read what he has written here. . . ."

The banker took the page from the table and read as follows:

"To-morrow at twelve o'clock I regain my freedom and the right to associate with

other men, but before I leave this room and see the sunshine, I think it necessary

to say a few words to you. With a clear conscience I tell you, as before God, who

beholds me, that I despise freedom and life and health, and all that in your books

is called the good things of the world.

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