A strand of seaweed was caught in the silver brooch. The gray suit was
dark now and heavy with water, except for one spot which had started
to dry and was faintly dusted with a white powder--salt. The odor of
the Bay was intimate and close. There was another strand of seaweed
clinging to one ankle against the wrinkled stocking.
And around the stained shoes, a little pool of water was forming.
His eyes traced the wet footprints down the hall. At the head of the
stairs the old clerk was standing, one foot still on the last step. He
was carrying a small pigskin suitcase.
"What's all this about?" he quavered, when he saw that Norman was
looking at him. "You didn't tell me you were expecting your wife. She
looks like she'd thrown herself in the Bay. We don't want anything
queer happening in this hotel--anything wrong."
"It's quite all right," said Norman, prolonging the moment before he
would have to look at her face. "I'm sorry I forgot to tell you. May I
have the bag?"
"--only last year we had a suicide"--the old clerk did not seem to
realize he was speaking his thoughts aloud--"bad for the hotel--" His
voice trailed off. He looked at Norman, gathered himself together,
and came hesitatingly down the hall. When he was a few steps away, he
stopped, reached out and put down the suitcase, turned, and walked
rapidly away.
Unwillingly, Norman raised his eyes until they were on a level with
hers.
The face was pale, very pale, and without expression. The lips were
tinged with blue. Wet hair was plastered against the cheeks. A thick
lock crossed one eye socket, like a curtain half drawn, and curled down
toward the throat, where it merged with a strand of seaweed. The dull
eyes stared at him, without sign of recognition. And no hand moved up
to brush the lock of hair away.
From the hem of the skirt, water was dripping.
The lips parted. The voice had the monotonous murmur of water.
"You were too late," the lips said. "You were a minute too late."