Incarnate or Reincarnate
Nina saw him first; for she was facing that way. Most women would have screamed; she only became rigid. It was the situation in the Umballa bungalow over again—save that there was no pistol at hand, and Andrews knew now that the cobra was made of bronze.
Nina became rigid; Gerald sensed the unexpected. He looked over his shoulder and caught the glare of Kneedrock's eyes piercing the gloomy half-light.
They weren't sane eyes. He saw that at once. And a creepy shiver ran along his spine.
Nina's rigidity gave way to trembling, and all in the brief space of two seconds at the most—two seconds that were as taut as a fiddle-string.
Then the staghound sprang up, snarling, his fangs bared, and the hair along his back bristling. But he didn't spring. He pressed close against Nina's legs and cowered as though he had seen a ghost.
And then Kneedrock laughed. It was the very last thing that they expected, and the strain tightened to the point of snapping.
Because of everything—the whole wretched ensemble—the laugh seemed wilder, madder, weirder, possibly, than it was. It broke off in a sort of choking gurgle, and in a flash the laugher had wheeled about and was swallowed up in the murk of the passage.
This only, probably, could have aroused Nina to action. Swiftly as light itself she sped after him with an imploring cry of:
"Hal! Hal!"