"I put my soul into that statue," he murmured softly. "I labored to produce a masterpiece, a work of art that would endure—" He broke off.
"Winters," he said, his face strangely white, his voice suddenly hoarse. "Could I—finish the Dawn Child. Her hands—they are incomplete. She—would not like that. It is hard to reach for the sun, when ones hands are—ugly. Would it be possible? Even though the statue is yours now. I could do the work in this room here. With chisel and hammer—" His eyes held the quality of a prayer, his voice trembled.
"Could I—finish it, sir?"
Winters looked at him. A faint streak of perversity—which, incidentally, was to cost him his life, rose in his brain.
"I see no reason why I should," he snapped. "You have looked at the statue. It was enough that I should let you do so. Quite enough. I expect to have the statue disposed of by the end of this week, unfinished as it is. Of course, the profit will be negligible, but—" He spread his hands, indicative of his disinterest in the matter.
"Good-day, sir."
De Roults turned slowly ashen.
"Then—then you will not allow me to finish—" he said, almost childlike.
"Precisely."
The young sculptor walked slowly toward the door, his head bowed. At the threshold, he turned, and looked first at Winters, then at the Dawn Child. There was an enigmatic expression on his face.
"Nevertheless," he whispered, "the Dawn Child shall be finished. Soon. I asked you for but a week more, Winters. I give you a week, now."
He turned and walked stiffly out.
Winters raised his eyebrows.
It was, perhaps, thirty seconds later that he heard the crash. He hurried out of the house, his pale blue eyes curious behind the glasses. There was a rather large crowd clustered in the middle of the street, muttering excitedly. The truck stood by, its fender rather badly dented, with a splotch of red. The truck driver was standing by, addressing empty air for the most part, and telling how, "He just walked right out in the street, front of my truck. Wasn't my fault. Can't help it if a man walks out'n the street in front of a truck, and doesn't even look where he's going. He walked out—"
Winters pursed his thin lips, then he turned back into his study, where he made certain entries in a large black ledger. On impulse, he checked up upon De Roults. The young sculptor had lived alone in a garret in the poorer section of town, and from what Winters could ascertain—seemed passionately devoted to his work. He was poor—very. Indeed, Winters wondered how he had ever managed to keep body and soul together.
It certainly was not his fault, if De Roults paid no attention to where he was walking, while crossing the street. The remainder of the day Winters spent in his usual pleasant fashion—that of figuring how to dispossess certain hapless clients.
It was late that night, around eleven-thirty, when Winters awoke suddenly, with the conviction that someone, or something was making strange sounds downstairs. He lay awake for some minutes, staring into the blackness, and suddenly he sat bolt upright in bed. The sound was repeated. It was an odd scraping, and scratching noise.
Muttering to himself, Winters got out of bed, put on his robe and slippers, and shuffled out into the hall. As near as he could determine, the sounds were coming from downstairs—in the general direction of his study. He shuffled downstairs, and into his study, where he turned on the light.
The glare of the light exploded whitely, throwing everything in the room into harsh
