They were all so intent—but Steptoe. She was buttoning her jacket when she saw his eyes steal round in her direction. A second later he had tiptoed back into the hall, and closed the door behind him.
It was vexing, but not fatal. He had probably gone for something. While he was getting it she would elude him. One thing was certain—she couldn’t face the look of disappointment in those sick dark eyes again. She opened the door. She shut it noiselessly behind her. Steptoe wasn’t there, and the way was free.
Barbara stood just where Letty had described herself as standing when the eyes had given her that glassy stare. To herself she seemed to stand there for ever, though the time could be counted in minutes. The pounding of her heart was like a pulsating of the house.
The eyes opened again. They opened, first wearily, and then with a fretful light which seemed to be searching for what they couldn’t find.
Barbara stood still.
There was another stirring of the hand, irritated, impatient. A little moan or groan was distinctly of complaint. The eyes having rolled hither and thither helplessly, the head turned slowly on the pillow so as to see the other side of the room.
“He’s looking for something that he misses,” Miss Moines explained, wonderingly. “What do you suppose it can be?”
“He wants—her.”
Barbara found her at the street door, pleading with Steptoe, who actually held her by the arm. The loud whisper down the stairs was a cry as well as a command.