death in san francisco . . . suddenly from across the hall came a cry, sharp, uncanny, terrible. i ran out in the direction from which it had come and stood on the threshold of the drew dining room. a table was set with gleaming silver and white linen, and in its center stood a cake, on which fifty absurd pink candles flickered bravely. there appeared to be no one in the room. on the other side of the table a french window stood open to the fog, and i went around to investigate. i had taken perhaps a dozen steps when i stopped, appalled. old drew was lying on the carpet, and one yellow lean hand, always so adept at reaching out and seizing, held a corner of the white tablecloth. there was a dark stain on the left side of his dress coat; and when i pulled the coat back, i saw on the otherwise spotless linen underneath a great red circle that grew and grew. he was quite dead. i stood erect, and for a dazed uncertain moment i stared about the room. beside me, on the table, fifty yellow points of flame trembled like human things terrified at what they had seen.