. . He stumbled
to the stairway. He forced his leaden feet to mount it. . . . It was
pitch dark there. The upper doors were shut. . . . "Her door--on the
right." He said this to himself as if prompting a stupid little boy
with a lesson . . . In the darkness his hand felt for the door-knob
. . . but why open the door? . . . There was no life behind it. He
knew that. . . . There was no life anywhere in this horrible
emptiness. . . . "Death, then." He muttered, as he flung back the
door.
There was nothing there . . . only moonlight . . . nothing . . .
yes, something on the floor . . . some-thing light and lacy, crushed
into shapelessness . . . Desire's hat.
He picked it up. The wires of its chiffon frame, broken and twisted,
fell limp in his hand.
There was no other sign in the room. The bed was untouched. The
Thing which had wrecked its insatiate rage upon the hat had not
lingered. Spence went out slowly. There would be time for everything
now--since time had ceased to matter. He laid the hat aside gently.
There might be work for his hands to do.
With mechanical care he searched the cottage. No trace of
disturbance met him anywhere until he reached the kitchen. Something
had happened there Over-turned chairs and broken table--a door half
off its hinge. Someone had fled from the house this way . . . fled
where?
There were so many places!
In his mind's eye Spence saw them . . . the steep and slippery
cliff, with shingle far below .
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