Now as this bedroom was a counterpart of her own she knew where the
light button would be. She might stumble over a chair or two, but in the
end she would find the light. The fingers of one hand spread out before
her and the other clutching the impossible automatic, she succeeded in
navigating the uncharted reefs of an unfamiliar room. She blinked for a
moment after throwing on the light, and stood with her back to the wall,
the automatic wabbling at nothing in particular. The room was empty so
far as she could see. There was evidence of a physical encounter, but
she could not tell whether it was due to the former or to the latter
invasion.
Where was he? From where she stood she could not see the floor on the
far side of the bed. Timidly she walked past the foot of the bed--and
the transient paralysis of horror laid hold of her. She became bereft of
the power to grasp and hold, and the automatic slipped from her fingers
and thudded on the carpet.
On the floor lay poor Johnny Two-Hawks, crumpled grotesquely, a streak
of blood zigzagging across his forehead; to all appearances, dead!