The words were hardly audible. Their glances met—clashed like dueling-swords.
For ten seconds neither of them said a word or moved a muscle: Arthur, from the stairs, looking down; his father below, gazing up at him. In Henry Duryea the blood drained slowly from his face and left a purple etching across the bridge of his nose and above his eyes. He looked like a death's-head.
Arthur winced at the sight and twisted his eyes away. He turned to go up the remaining stairs.
"Son!"
He stopped again; his hand tightened on the banister.
"Yes, Dad?"
Duryea put his foot on the first stair, "I want you to lock your door tonight. The wind would keep it banging!"
"Yes," breathed Arthur, and pushed up the stairs to his room.
Doctor Duryea's hollow footsteps sounded in steady, unhesitant beats across the floor of Timber Lake Lodge. Sometimes they stopped, and the crackling hiss of a sulfur match took their place, then perhaps a distended sigh, and, again, footsteps....