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for the slayer。
The thought was yet in his mind； when； first one and then another；
with every variety of pace and voiceone deep as the bell from a cathedral
turret； another ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz；the clocks
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began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon。
The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb chamber
staggered him。 He began to bestir himself； going to and fro with the candle；
beleaguered by moving shadows； and startled to the soul by chance
reflections。 In many rich mirrors； some of home design； some from Venice
or Amsterdam； he saw his face repeated and repeated； as it were an army
of spies； his own eyes met and detected him； and the sound of his own
steps； lightly as they fell； vexed the surrounding quiet。 And still； as he
continued to fill his pockets； his mind accused him with a sickening
iteration； of the thousand faults of his design。 He should have chosen a
more quiet hour； he should have prepared an alibi； he should not have
used a knife； he should have been more cautious； and only bound and
gagged the dealer； and not killed him； he should have been more bold； and
killed the servant also； he should have done all things otherwise。 Poignant
regrets； weary； incessant toiling of the mind to change what was
unchangeable； to plan what was now useless； to be the architect of the
irrevocable past。 Meanwhile； and behind all this activity； brute terrors； like
the scurrying of rats in a deserted attic； filled the more remote chambers of
his brain with riot； the hand of the constable would fall heavy on his
shoulder； and his nerves would jerk like a hooked fish； or he beheld； in
galloping defile； the dock； the prison； the gallows； and the black coffin。
Terror of the people in the street sat down before his mind like a
besieging army。 It was impossible； he thought； but that some rumour of the
struggle must have reached their ears and set on edge their curiosity； and
now； in all the neighbouring houses； he divined them sitting motionless
and with uplifted earsolitary people； condemned to spend Christmas
dwelling alone on memories of the past； and now startingly recalled from
that tender exercise； happy family parties struck into silence round the
table； the mother still with raised fingerevery degree and age and humour；
but all； by their own hearths； prying and hearkening and weaving the rope
that was to hang him。 Sometimes it seemed to him he could not move too
softly； the clink of the tall Bohemian goblets rang out loudly like a bell；
and alarmed by the bigness of the ticking； he was tempted to stop the
clocks。 And then； again； with a swift transition of his terrors； the very
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silence of the place appeared a source of peril； and a thing to strike and
freeze the passer…by； and he would step more boldly； and bustle aloud
among the contents of the shop； and imitate； with elaborate bravado； the
movements of a busy man at ease in his own house。
But he was now so pulled about by different alarms that； while one
portion of his mind was still alert and cunning； another trembled on the
brink of lunacy。 One hallucination in particular took a strong hold on his
credulity。 The neighbour hearkening with white face beside his window；
the passer…by arrested by a horrible surmise on the pavementthese could
at worst suspect； they could not know； through the brick walls and
shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate。 But here； within the house；
was he alone？ He knew he was； he had watched the servant set forth
sweet…hearting； in her poor best； 〃out for the day〃 written in every ribbon
and smile。 Yes； he was alone； of course； and yet； in the bulk of empty
house above him； he could surely hear a stir of delicate footing； he was
surely conscious； inexplicably conscious of some presence。 Ay； surely； to
every room and corner of the house his imagination followed it； and now
it was a faceless thing； and yet had eyes to see with； and again it was a
shadow of himself； and yet again behold the image of the dead dealer；
reinspired with cunning and hatred。
At times； with a strong effort； he would glance at the open door which
still seemed to repel his eyes。 The house was tall； the skylight small and
dirty； the day blind with fog； and the light that filtered down to the ground
story was exceedingly faint； and showed dimly on the threshold of the
shop。 And yet； in that strip of doubtful brightness； did there not hang
wavering a shadow？
Suddenly； from the street outside； a very jovial gentleman began to
beat with a staff on the shop door； accompanying his blows with shouts
and railleries in which the dealer was continually called upon by name。
Markheim； smitten into ice； glanced at the dead man。 But no！ he lay quite
still； he was fled away far beyond earshot of these blows and shoutings； he
was sunk beneath seas of silence； and his name； which would once have
caught his notice above the howling of a storm； had become an empty
sound。 And presently the jovial gentleman desisted from his knocking and
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departed。
Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be done； to get forth
from this accusing neighbourhood； to plunge into a bath of London
multitudes； and to reach； on the other side of day； that haven of safety and
apparent innocencehis bed。 One visitor had come； at any moment
another might follow and be more obstinate。 To have done the deed； and
yet not to reap the profit； would be too abhorrent a failure。 The money
that was now Markheim's concern； and as a means to that； the keys。
He glanced over his shoulder at the open door； where the shadow was
still lingering and shivering； and with no conscious repugnance of the
mind； yet with a trem