Racksole wanted to call out, to stop by some means or other the
dreadful midnight activity which was proceeding before his
astonished eyes; but fortunately he restrained himself.
On the washstand he could see certain strangely-shaped utensils
and instruments which Rocco used from time to time. The work
seemed to Racksole to continue for interminable hours, and then at
last Rocco ceased, gave a sign of satisfaction, whistled several bars
from 'Cavalleria Rusticana', and came into the bath-room, where
he took off his coat, and very quietly washed his hands. As he
stood calmly and leisurely wiping those long fingers of his, he was
less than four feet from Racksole, and the cooped-up millionaire
trembled, holding his breath, lest Rocco should detect his presence
behind the woodwork. But nothing happened, and Rocco returned
unsuspectingly to the bedroom. Racksole saw him place some sort
of white flannel garment over the prone form on the table, and
then lift it bodily on to the great bed, where it lay awfully still. The
hidden watcher was sure now that it was a corpse upon which
Rocco had been exercising his mysterious and sinister functions.
But whose corpse? And what functions? Could this be a West End
hotel, Racksole's own hotel, in the very heart of London, the
best-policed city in the world? It seemed incredible, impossible;
yet so it was. Once more he remembered what Felix Babylon had
said to him and realized the truth of the saying anew.
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