Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/215

 Somehow, the feeling that he was not alone would not down. Of course it had been the rubbing of the twigs in the wind, but Val felt that perhaps it had not been. Suppose it had only seemed like that. Suppose

He strained his eyes into the night on all sides of him. Softly, silent as a cat, he padded around two sides of the house. He could see nothing. To him on the wings of the night came the song of Germinal:

Val went back to his post at the window. There was no change in the position of the three within. Elizabeth was still dozing, Jessica was attempting to appear unconcerned at the passing of time, and Teck was a Gibraltar of permanence. Val could hear nothing of what was being said, but he could see that the handless one was doing most of the talking. He was arguing in his quiet, emotionless fashion, his ugly scar standing out redly against the pasty skin of his face, and his slit shaped eyes gleaming at Jessica purposefully and—Val thought—evilly.

Jessica was slightly paler than usual; he could see that Teck was trying to argue her into something, some course of action, perhaps; he could see, too, that Jessica was standing firm in her refusal, and would continue to stand firm. His impulse, of course, was to enter and put an end to the conversation. That, however, would scarcely be in accordance with the plans. He considered that it was just as well that Teck did not know he was there. It was a trump in the game—the value of surprise was in it. He de-