“Cardiac attack--the same as before--singular coincidence! I need scarcely say that we never slept again under that accursed roof. Poor Sylvia! She was overwhelmed at the thought of how narrow her escape had been.”
“Did you notice anything remarkable about the room--about the shutters of the window?” I asked.
He looked at me curiously for a moment. Then he bent forward and said--
“On the edge of the shutter there were some curious marks where the wood had been charred.”
“As if a hand with a red-hot gauntlet had been laid upon it?”
“There were the marks of two such hands,” said my friend slowly.
We remained for an hour in the garden; then we threw away the ends of our cigars and went into the hotel without another word.
End of Project Gutenberg’s The Other World, by Frank Frankfort Moore