I went on up the stairs, but not quite to the top. T hank God, Heloise
did not know--not yet.
From this point I could not see him. I waited.
Finally--it seemed a long time, but I suppose it was not more than two
or three minutes, really--he appeared at the foot of the stairs. He was
swaying a very little. On his face was the crafty expression I had
seen there once or twice during our talk in the morning; his eyes had
narrowed down to slits. Curiously enough, he was still pale, not red, as
I should naturally expect in the case of a man as drunk as he. If he saw
me at all, waiting there a little way from the top of the stairway, the
sight of me meant nothing to his disordered mind.
[Illustration: 00279]
He placed one foot on the bottom step, stopped and put his hand to his
mouth (standing motionless, as if trying to think), then brought out his
knife. He drew it from the sheath. It had a wicked blade--designed for
desperate, primitive uses, I should say. The sheath he returned to his
pocket.
Then, with a curiously set, almost businesslike expression on his face,
he came running up the stairs.