cided in some satisfaction, and so deciding, turned over again on his side.
Abruptly he raised himself on one elbow and glared through the darkness toward the hall. The sound had been repeated. He could hear it now—the same chipping sound. Winters cursed silently, and got up, taking care not to creak the bedsprings.
Very stealthily, he tiptoed downstairs. He opened the Study door silently, and quite suddenly snapped on the light and stood on the threshold blinking.
There was no one in the room.
Winters looked around. The closet door was still locked. Muttering querulously to himself, he opened it, and looked inside. For an instant he wondered if his eyes were beginning to play tricks on him.
Then he took a step backwards.
The statue's hands were beginning to take definite form. Moreover, the arms had moved. Moved a good three inches.
Winters rubbed his chin doubtfully, and wondered how he could have ever thought the face of the statue beautiful. The lips were not smiling at all, and the whole face seemed to have a definitely unpleasant cast.
"Humph," said Winters.
He retrieved the sheet and placed it upon the statue. He looked around the study carefully, and into each corner of the closet, more than once narrowly escaping the sticking of his foot into a rat trap.
Before going back to bed, he eyed the tiny pile of marble chips around the pedestal of the statue, and though his lips moved queerly, he said nothing.
Jerome Winters got very little sleep that night. He heard the chipping, scraping sounds from downstairs quite audibly, no matter how hard he tried to bury his head underneath the covers.
Next day, business did not go well at all. Every little thing seemed to go wrong, his papers were not where they should be, and he forgot several important matters relating to interest payments and debts.
But he would not admit, even to himself, that he was worried. Toward noon, Winters received an unexpected telegram. He scowled at it, and pursed his lips.
This was decidedly unfortunate. He had planned to get rid of that statue today. To take it to some antique dealer, and—and give it away if he had to.
What was he thinking of! Give something away that had cost him seventy-five dollars. And for that matter—two sleepless nights. But after all—De Roults had said that the statue would be finished within a week. And the look on the face of the statue last night—possibly there was something to the young sculptor's threat, after all.
Winters dismissed the thought.
At any rate, he would be out of town for the next four days on business. A piece of property he had acquired from some poor debtor must be appraised. Well, he could get rid of the statue in the city. At some small profit, of course. It would be comparatively simple, since the statue was almost finished.
So it was that while away from Hammondville, Winters saw and interviewed the manager of a certain prominent antique shop, one Sir Arthur Manwell, in regard to coming out to Hammondville to see a very valuable statue he possessed.
Yes, the statue was easily worth five hundred dollars. Exquisitely carved, it was. By a young sculptor named De Roults. What? Oh no. The young man had met with a very tragic accident. Yes. Too bad.
And he would come out to Hammondville today, to appraise the statue? What? Not until tomorrow. But the week would be up then. What? Oh nothing. Nothing at all. Tomorrow then.
Winters arrived home that afternoon
