cold and nerves and the strain of the past few moments, she took Felicia’s place on the bed. And waited.
And in the waiting, as always happens, she became uncertain. All the other possibilities crowded into her mind. She was mistaken. There was no proof. This attempt to trap the murderer would fail. She was wrong in thinking that the attack would be made that night.
She knew that Jim Byrne, and probably Lieutenant Mohrn and a number of extremely active and husky policemen, were at that very moment speeding along the road to Glenn Ash.
The thought of it was inexpressibly comforting. But it was also fraught with dangerous possibilities. They might easily arrive too soon. They couldn’t arrive too late, she thought, as, once she had proof, that was enough.
But there were so many ways the thing could go wrong, thought Susan rather desperately as the minutes ticked away on the little French clock on the mantel. And her own rapidly conceived plan was so weak, so full of loopholes, so dependent upon chance. Or was it?
After all, it had been intuitional, swift, certain. And intuition with her, Susan reminded herself firmly, was actually a matter of subconscious reasoning. And subconscious reasoning, she went on still firmly, was far better than conscious, rule-of-thumb reasoning. And anyway, the rule-of-thumb reasoning was clear too.
The attack upon Felicia must come. It had already been prepared and ready once, but then William, poor William, had come into it and interfered and had had to be murdered.
She was in the deep shadow, there on Felicia’s bed. But the door into the hall was in deep shadow, too. Would she hear it when it opened?
How long was it since she had telephoned to Jim? Where was he now? What would he do when he arrived?
She became more and more convinced that the police would arrive too soon.
Yet, unless she was entirely mistaken, the attack must come soon. Although planned perhaps for months, that night it would be in one way an impulsive act. She did not shift her eyes from the door. It was so quiet in the house—so terribly quiet and so cold. It was as if the Easter image downstairs had extended the realm of his possession. So cold—
It was then that Susan realized that the cold was coming from the window and that it was being opened, moving almost silently inward. Her eyes had jerked that way, and her heart gave a great leap of terror, but otherwise she had not moved.
She hadn’t thought of the window.
A figure, black in the shadow, was moving with infinite stealth over the sill.
“From the porch, of course,” thought one part of Susan’s mind. “There are stairs somewhere; there must be.” And then she realized coldly what a dangerous thing she had undertaken to do.
But it was done, and there she was in Felicia’s place. And she must get one clear glimpse of that figure’s face.
It was so dark in the shadows by the window. Susan realized she must close her eyes and did so, feigning sleep and listening with taut nerves.
A rustle and a pause.
It was more than flesh and blood could bear. Surely that figure was far enough away from the window by this time so that it could not escape before Susan had a look at its face.
She moved, and there was still silence. She flung one arm outward lazily and sat up as if sleepily and opened her eyes.
“Is that you, Mrs. Denisty?” she asked drowsily.
And looked at the figure and directly into a revolver.
There was to be no pretense then. Susan’s vague plan of talk, of excuses on both sides, collapsed.
“If you shoot,” she said in a clear low voice that miraculously did not tremble, “the whole house will be here before you can escape.”
“I know that.” The reply was equally low and clear. “But you know too much, my dear.”
The last thing Susan remembered before that pandemonium of struggle began was the revolver being placed quite deliberately upon the green satin eiderdown. Then all knowledge was lost, and she was
And in the waiting, as always happens, she became uncertain. All the other possibilities crowded into her mind. She was mistaken. There was no proof. This attempt to trap the murderer would fail. She was wrong in thinking that the attack would be made that night.
She knew that Jim Byrne, and probably Lieutenant Mohrn and a number of extremely active and husky policemen, were at that very moment speeding along the road to Glenn Ash.
The thought of it was inexpressibly comforting. But it was also fraught with dangerous possibilities. They might easily arrive too soon. They couldn’t arrive too late, she thought, as, once she had proof, that was enough.
But there were so many ways the thing could go wrong, thought Susan rather desperately as the minutes ticked away on the little French clock on the mantel. And her own rapidly conceived plan was so weak, so full of loopholes, so dependent upon chance. Or was it?
After all, it had been intuitional, swift, certain. And intuition with her, Susan reminded herself firmly, was actually a matter of subconscious reasoning. And subconscious reasoning, she went on still firmly, was far better than conscious, rule-of-thumb reasoning. And anyway, the rule-of-thumb reasoning was clear too.
The attack upon Felicia must come. It had already been prepared and ready once, but then William, poor William, had come into it and interfered and had had to be murdered.
She was in the deep shadow, there on Felicia’s bed. But the door into the hall was in deep shadow, too. Would she hear it when it opened?
How long was it since she had telephoned to Jim? Where was he now? What would he do when he arrived?
She became more and more convinced that the police would arrive too soon.
Yet, unless she was entirely mistaken, the attack must come soon. Although planned perhaps for months, that night it would be in one way an impulsive act. She did not shift her eyes from the door. It was so quiet in the house—so terribly quiet and so cold. It was as if the Easter image downstairs had extended the realm of his possession. So cold—
It was then that Susan realized that the cold was coming from the window and that it was being opened, moving almost silently inward. Her eyes had jerked that way, and her heart gave a great leap of terror, but otherwise she had not moved.
She hadn’t thought of the window.
A figure, black in the shadow, was moving with infinite stealth over the sill.
“From the porch, of course,” thought one part of Susan’s mind. “There are stairs somewhere; there must be.” And then she realized coldly what a dangerous thing she had undertaken to do.
But it was done, and there she was in Felicia’s place. And she must get one clear glimpse of that figure’s face.
It was so dark in the shadows by the window. Susan realized she must close her eyes and did so, feigning sleep and listening with taut nerves.
A rustle and a pause.
It was more than flesh and blood could bear. Surely that figure was far enough away from the window by this time so that it could not escape before Susan had a look at its face.
She moved, and there was still silence. She flung one arm outward lazily and sat up as if sleepily and opened her eyes.
“Is that you, Mrs. Denisty?” she asked drowsily.
And looked at the figure and directly into a revolver.
There was to be no pretense then. Susan’s vague plan of talk, of excuses on both sides, collapsed.
“If you shoot,” she said in a clear low voice that miraculously did not tremble, “the whole house will be here before you can escape.”
“I know that.” The reply was equally low and clear. “But you know too much, my dear.”
The last thing Susan remembered before that pandemonium of struggle began was the revolver being placed quite deliberately upon the green satin eiderdown. Then all knowledge was lost, and she was
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