"I said a kind of expression. Don't sob. You—’’
"But you did kill 'er?"
"Yes! What’s so bad about it?"
Clearly, not loudly, but with smooth and articulate viciousness, somebody's voice moved straight on microphone Martin Drake realized, with horror, whose voice it was.
"We mustn't worry over these things. They happen," said somebody's voice. "You seem sensible. I'll take care of you."
"No, by God!" said Puckston. And every effect was shattered; his voice, with the sound known as blasting, pierce the ear but smothered clearness. "No, by God! I'll take care of you!' And through that bubbling blatter there came a faint noise as of a hammer thudded down on meat
"Stop it!’’ shouted Masters. "Stop it! The confession is—"
It was too late. And the maze gave up its last secret
Before Martin's eyes what seemed a solid mirror at the end of the short passage rippled like water, soundlessly, distorting the staring reflections. Then it curled and disappeared. Somebody, back to the watchers, staggered into the passage reeling out of nowhere, piercing a dead-end, straight into the watchers' faces.
Arthur Puckston, forcing back that reeling figure, no long stooped. His narrow bald head, his staring blue eyes, loomed like an image of mania. He was hitting for the face with countryman's blows: unskilled, straight, murderous. Then the group collided, and flew apart.