That day was Thursday. Nothing else happened that day.
Friday morning I was awakened by the noise of my bedroom door being opened violently.
Martin, the thin-faced valet, came dashing into my room and began shaking me by the shoulder, though I was sitting up by the time he reached my bedside.
His thin face was lemon-yellow and ugly with fear.
“It’s happened,” he babbled. “Oh, my God, it’s happened!”
“What’s happened?”
“It’s happened. It’s happened.”
I pushed him aside and got out of bed. He turned suddenly and ran into my bathroom. I could hear him vomiting as I pushed my feet into slippers.
Kavalov’s bedroom was three doors below mine, on the same side of the building.
The house was full of noises, excited voices, doors opening and shutting, though I couldn’t see anybody.
I ran down to Kavalov’s door. It was open.
Kavalov was in there, lying on a low Spanish bed. The bedclothes were thrown down across the foot.