Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/238

 “What do you want to do—slug him? You can’t slug a man with no hands—a defenseless human⸺”

“Defenseless me eye!” burst in Eddie. “How do you get that way? Beggin’ your pardon, sir. But if he’s defenseless, I’m in me cradle listenin’ to me mother jazzin’ about the treetops an’ the cradle rocking, an’ all. Defenseless—say, I guess you wouldn’t think so if he’d cracked you one on the bean like he did me⸺” Eddie’s language, careful in his calmer moments, was decidedly slipshod and slangy when he was moved.

“He did, Eddie,” broke in Val, soberly. “I wonder what he carries there⸺”

“Whatever it is, it’s a world beater—that’s all I got to say,” said Eddie. “Gee! That crack he give me was enough to make my whole family sick.”

Silently they made their way out of the house, seeing and hearing no one; evidently the place was deserted once more, left to its long sleep as before, “one with the darkness and the powers thereof,” as Val repeated to himself, half audibly.

A few handfuls of rainwater sufficed to wash the blood off Eddie’s face, and, bound up with his employer’s handkerchief over his right eye, he was once more ready for whatever the night should bring forth. By the time they reached Jessica’s little cottage the rain had got in its work well, and they were soaked, with their clothes clinging to their limbs affectionately and moisture dripping from every seam.

A broad beam of light emanated from the living room window, cutting a few feet into the night with its golden glow and leaving the rest of outdoors blacker by contrast. Val knocked on the door. After a moment it was opened by Jessica herself.

In silence she preceded them into the living room,