"Drop it!"
Slowly, Mark's hands relaxed. He let the picture fall to the floor.
"Now—raise your hands and walk over to the corner. Stand with your face to the wall!"
Mark moved like one paralyzed. His hands came up as if they were weighted with lead. His brown eyes were fixed on the shadowy finger back of the flashlight, and impotent rage and hatred seethed within them.
Yet what could he do? Jump Vance? Try to wrest the inevitable gun from the antiquarian's hand?
Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. No. It was impossible. His slug-riddled body would pitch lifeless to the floor before he could take two steps forward.
Nor was it mere fear of death that made him halt. That he would have faced, and gladly.
But what actually held him back was that such a suicidal attempt would avail him nothing. It would bring him no nearer his real goal than before: Elaine still would meet that awful doom which history had recorded as her fate!
"Turn around, damn you! Get over to the corner! Put your face to the wall!"
Ever so slowly, Mark turned. His brain was pounding with frantic effort as he strove to find some flaw in the awful wall of circumstance that rose about him.