She kept her face hidden now while George worked. The only sound was the muffled clicking of the balls in the combination; the only light, the shaft from the lamp which she held unsteadily. The thought of the steel walls added to the oppression of the air. Garth breathed with difficulty. He fancied once that something moved behind the divan. George caught his start and demanded an explanation. He scolded querulously.
"Well," Garth croaked, "I agree with the lady. I don't like the room."
"I looked around," George said.
Nora lowered her arms.
"George," she said, "sometimes you can't see everything."
She straightened. That disquieting, colorless whisper came again.
"I know what it is. That cop was killed here, wasn't he?"
"What do I know about it?" he asked angrily.
She leaned closer and grasped his arm.
"Right here, George. And if he—It must have been just like this—this time of night—when he—George! Can't we turn on the lights?"
He swallowed hard.
"Why not send out a call for the patrol? What do you mean, if he—"
She shivered.
"I don't like places where people have died hard. That's what I felt when I came in here. But you—you're not afraid?"
