“You won’t shoot me. You can’t. You’d lose too much good faith.”
Despite her outraged gasp, he continued toward the door that was being importuned. Another smile he threw over-shoulder to reassure her of his confidence.
And Jane didn’t shoot. Probably she couldn’t. No report shocked the air. Nothing sounded except a gruff demand from the inner side of the door.
“Who’s there? Wha’d’you want?”
From outside: “Old friends. We wish to see Miss Lauderdale.”
“Who?”
“Lauderdale—Miss Lau-der-dale.”
“Who in holy Hemlock directed you here, then? My name ain’t Lauderdale. Never will be. Stop the noise, will you?”
There ensued further low-voiced consultation without. A moment later footsteps began a descent of the stairs. Scroop ... screak ... screech.
Not until the musical siren announced the departure from the block of the would-be visitors, did Pape relax from his listening attitude at the door. On turning he saw that Jane, too, had slumped, limp and white, into a chair, the very black and ominous something with which she had threatened him dropped into her lap. A look half-dazed, yet wholly hopeful was on her face.