“The same.”
“What have you done to our lights?”
“Pulled out the fuse.”
“Well, go put it back again.”
“And find the door locked when I come back? Nothing doing.”
“What do you want?”
I said, “You know what I want. I—”
“What is it?” Edna Cutler asked almost in a whisper as I abruptly ceased speaking.
“Take it easy,” I said, quietly. “I was afraid he’d followed you.”
There were steps coming down the corridor, slow, steady steps as calmly remorseless as the steps of an executioner approaching the cell of a convict in condemned row.