"We can do all sorts of things down here," she babbled on. "Mix all sorts of sound. Music against voices. And—"
It was hard for Norman to appear even slightly pleased. He knew his reasons were no more sensible than those of a savage afraid someone will learn his secret name, yet all the same he disliked the idea of Evelyn Sawtelle monkeying around with his voice. Like her dully malicious, small-socketed eyes, it suggested a prying for hidden weaknesses. And then that talk about mixing sounds—somehow it did not set good with him.
What it all boiled down to was that he detested the woman.
Rather brusquely, he excused himself.
"We'll see you tonight," Evelyn called after him. It sounded like, "You won't get rid of me."
Back at the office, Norman put in a good hour's work on his notes. Then, getting up to switch on the light, his glance happened to fall on the window.
After a few moments, he jerked away and darted to the closet, to get his field glasses.
Evidently someone had a very obscure sense of humor to perpetrate such a complicated practical joke.
Intently he searched the cement at the juncture of roof ridge and clawed feet, looking for the telltale cracks. He could not spot any, but that was not easy to do in the failing yellow light.