“Did I hit it?” he asked.
“I—I don’t think so.”
“I knew it.... It is an art requiring practice.”
Again and again he belabored the bed with his weapon, asking after each blow if he had struck the mark. “I fancy,” he said, “I am becoming more accomplished. I—er—am pretending it is a human head. I am endeavoring to visualize it as the head of an individual obnoxious to me.”
“But why? What are you about?”
“I have heard it said that desperate situations demand desperate remedies. I am about to become desperate. Do I look desperate?” He turned to her hopefully.
“I—you look very determined.”
“It is, perhaps, the same thing. I am very determined. I am inexorable.... Please listen at the door. If he comes upon us before I have time to make essential preparations, my desperation will be of no avail.”
Carmel went to the door and listened while Evan continued to belabor the bed. “Decidedly,” he panted, “I am becoming proficient. I hit it ten times hand-running.”
“But——”