And that whatever that thing was, it was definitely, strongly inimical. It was not Rob. It was nothing friendly. It was stealthy and purposeful and horribly evil. It was as if murder itself had become living and was walking there on furtive feet in the black and murmurous night. Detached from human warmth, hot only in its own terrible hunger. But murder can’t walk. Murder cannot walk! It cannot make stealthy footsteps, one and then another along the thick carpet! It was as if she went entirely out of her frightened body. What was this?—the cold glass of the aquarium, she was at the end of the room. Hurry, then, holding your heart so it cannot leap and betray you. Marcia got to the door and knew nothing of how she did it in that confusing cavern of blackness filled with the surging, pouring beat of the rain. At the door something queer happened. The sleeve of the flannel jacket seemed to catch on something, and the jacket twitched itself away from her. It happened in an instant, easily because it was so loose.
