Then she straightened herself up with a jerk, and Wolf pulled his hand away from under the bedclothes. He felt inert, utterly unable to deal with this crisis. Stupidly he watched her across the old man’s stiff figure. He had been by degrees noting the aspects of this room which was so completely strange to him. Mr. Malakite’s bedroom! He had even permitted himself to wonder what kind of spiritual “eidola”⁠ ⁠… the creation of the thoughts of this singular old man⁠ ⁠… lived and moved, like invisible homunculi, in this bare room! For the room was absolutely bare. With the exception of a small framed picture, in staring colours, of Raphael’s Transfiguration , propped up upon the mantelpiece, there was nothing upon the walls. The only thing to be seen in the room now was death⁠—death upon the bed, and the daughter of death standing at the window!