He was lying on his back and staring upwards.

He saw partly on the ceiling and partly on the wall the moving shadow of an arm with a clenched hand holding a carving knife.

It flickered up and down.

Its movements were leisurely.
They were leisurely enough for Mr Verloc to recognise the limb and the weapon.
They were leisurely enough for him to take in the full meaning of the portent, and to taste the flavour of death rising in his gorge.

His wife had gone raving mad--murdering mad.