When it had
settled itself, unperceived, in its lurking place--the Hand stole
out again--closed the window-door, relocked it.
Hand or claw? Hand of man or woman or paw of beast? In the name
of God--WHOSE HAND?
Miss Cornelia's voice from the head of the stairs broke the silence.
"All right! Put out the lights!"
Dale pressed the switch. Heavy darkness. The sound of her own
breathing. A mutter from the Doctor. Then, abruptly, a white,
piercing shaft of light cut the darkness of the stairs--horribly
reminiscent of that other light-shaft that had signaled Fleming's
doom.
"Was it here?" Miss Cornelia's voice came muffledly from the head
of the stairs.
Dale considered. "Come down a little," she said. The white spot
of light wavered, settled on the Doctor's face.
"I hope you haven't a weapon," the Doctor called up the stairs with
an unsuccessful attempt at jocularity.
Miss Cornelia descended another step.
"How's this?"
"That's about right," said Dale uncertainly. Miss Cornelia was
satisfied.
"Lights, please." She went up the stairs again to see if she could
puzzle out what course of escape the man who had shot Fleming had
taken after his crime--if it had been a man.
Dale switched on the living-room lights with a sense of relief. The
reconstruction of the crime had tried her sorely. She sat down to
recover her poise.
"Doctor! I'm so frightened!" she confessed.
The Doctor at once assumed his best manner of professional
reassurance.
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