definite, material clue.
She turned, smoothed back her hair, and sat down at the writing desk. And set herself to reducing intangibles to tangibles.
It was after midnight when she leaned back and looked at what she had written.
A conclusion was there, of course, implicit in those facts. But she needed one link. And, even with that one link, she had no proof. Susan turned off the light and opened the window and stood there for a moment, looking out into the starless, quiet night.
Through the darkness and quiet a small dull sound came, beating with rhythmic little thuds upon her ears. And quite suddenly it was as if a small far-away tom-tom was beating out its dark and secret message.
Easter Island and a devil.
“This,” said Susan firmly to herself, “is fantastic. The sound is made by footsteps on the wooden bridge.”
She listened, and faintly the footsteps came nearer. She could see nothing through the soft damp blackness. But suddenly, not far below her window, the footsteps ceased. Whoever was on the bridge then had now reached the path.
There was no way to know who had passed.
Yet quite suddenly Susan knew as surely as if she had seen.
And with the knowledge came the strangest feeling of urgency. For she knew, with a blinding flash of light, what those footsteps on the bridge meant.
She snatched a dark silk dressing gown and flung it around her shoulders, unlocked her door and fled down the hall. She waited in the dusk above the stair railing, until the door below opened and she caught a glimpse of the person who entered. It was as she expected, and she turned and was at Felicia’s door by the time steps began to ascend the stairs.
If Felicia’s door were locked! But it was not. She opened it and slipped inside and leaned against it, her heart pounding as if she’d been racing. Felicia was sleeping quietly and peacefully.
Now what to do? If there were only time—time to plan, time to make arrangements. But there was not.
And she had no proof.
And the feeling of urgency was stronger.
Felicia lay so sunk in sleep that only her heavy drugged breathing told Susan that she was alive.
At the bedside table was a telephone—a delicate gold and ivory thing—resting on a cradle.
Did she dare use it?
She must take the risk. She would need help.
She went to the telephone, lifted it, and called a number very softly into the ivory mouthpiece, and waited.
“Hello—hello—” It was Jim Byrne’s voice and sounded sleepy and far away.
“Jim—Jim, this is Susan.”
“Susan—do you want me?”
“Yes.” Did she imagine it or did the floor creak very softly just below the door? If anyone were out there, if her voice, not Felicia’s, were heard—
“Susan—what are you doing? Susan —”
Even at a distance the vibration from the telephone might be heard.
“Susan!” cried Jim and very softly Susan replaced the telephone on its cradle. Suddenly his voice was gone. And he was miles and miles away.
The floor under the door did not creak again. If she could only have told Jim what to do, what she was trying to do, where to wait until she signaled. Well, the thing now was to get Felicia out of danger.
She turned to the bed.
It was terrifically difficult to rouse Felicia. Susan was exhausted and trembling by the time she had managed to half carry and half push Felicia into the small dressing room. A chaise-longue was there, and when Felicia’s slack, inert figure collapsed upon it gracelessly, she fell again into the horribly heavy slumber from which she had never fully aroused. And all the time there had been that dreadful necessity for haste.
Susan, panting from the sheer physical strain, very softly closed the door of the dressing room.
Then, with the utmost caution, she turned the shade of the light so that it would not fall directly upon the door into the hall and yet so that anyone entering the room would be obliged to cross that narrow band of light.
Then, because she was shaking from
She turned, smoothed back her hair, and sat down at the writing desk. And set herself to reducing intangibles to tangibles.
It was after midnight when she leaned back and looked at what she had written.
A conclusion was there, of course, implicit in those facts. But she needed one link. And, even with that one link, she had no proof. Susan turned off the light and opened the window and stood there for a moment, looking out into the starless, quiet night.
Through the darkness and quiet a small dull sound came, beating with rhythmic little thuds upon her ears. And quite suddenly it was as if a small far-away tom-tom was beating out its dark and secret message.
Easter Island and a devil.
“This,” said Susan firmly to herself, “is fantastic. The sound is made by footsteps on the wooden bridge.”
She listened, and faintly the footsteps came nearer. She could see nothing through the soft damp blackness. But suddenly, not far below her window, the footsteps ceased. Whoever was on the bridge then had now reached the path.
There was no way to know who had passed.
Yet quite suddenly Susan knew as surely as if she had seen.
And with the knowledge came the strangest feeling of urgency. For she knew, with a blinding flash of light, what those footsteps on the bridge meant.
She snatched a dark silk dressing gown and flung it around her shoulders, unlocked her door and fled down the hall. She waited in the dusk above the stair railing, until the door below opened and she caught a glimpse of the person who entered. It was as she expected, and she turned and was at Felicia’s door by the time steps began to ascend the stairs.
If Felicia’s door were locked! But it was not. She opened it and slipped inside and leaned against it, her heart pounding as if she’d been racing. Felicia was sleeping quietly and peacefully.
Now what to do? If there were only time—time to plan, time to make arrangements. But there was not.
And she had no proof.
And the feeling of urgency was stronger.
Felicia lay so sunk in sleep that only her heavy drugged breathing told Susan that she was alive.
At the bedside table was a telephone—a delicate gold and ivory thing—resting on a cradle.
Did she dare use it?
She must take the risk. She would need help.
She went to the telephone, lifted it, and called a number very softly into the ivory mouthpiece, and waited.
“Hello—hello—” It was Jim Byrne’s voice and sounded sleepy and far away.
“Jim—Jim, this is Susan.”
“Susan—do you want me?”
“Yes.” Did she imagine it or did the floor creak very softly just below the door? If anyone were out there, if her voice, not Felicia’s, were heard—
“Susan—what are you doing? Susan —”
Even at a distance the vibration from the telephone might be heard.
“Susan!” cried Jim and very softly Susan replaced the telephone on its cradle. Suddenly his voice was gone. And he was miles and miles away.
The floor under the door did not creak again. If she could only have told Jim what to do, what she was trying to do, where to wait until she signaled. Well, the thing now was to get Felicia out of danger.
She turned to the bed.
It was terrifically difficult to rouse Felicia. Susan was exhausted and trembling by the time she had managed to half carry and half push Felicia into the small dressing room. A chaise-longue was there, and when Felicia’s slack, inert figure collapsed upon it gracelessly, she fell again into the horribly heavy slumber from which she had never fully aroused. And all the time there had been that dreadful necessity for haste.
Susan, panting from the sheer physical strain, very softly closed the door of the dressing room.
Then, with the utmost caution, she turned the shade of the light so that it would not fall directly upon the door into the hall and yet so that anyone entering the room would be obliged to cross that narrow band of light.
Then, because she was shaking from
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