Yet he had not halted a minute when his ears seemed to catch another cry, this time from below, out of another world. Margaret. Surely that was her voice calling his name? Or was it that old trick of memory, a phantom call? There was silence now and he moved forward, but doubtfully. No, there was no mistake. ‘Philip, Philip!’ All of her in the cry, and a terrible urgency. Still mechanically clutching at the lamp, with neither hand free to balance himself, he rushed down the stairs, miraculously without falling; and immediately that feeling of mental sickness and terror vanished and a curious kind of anger stirred in him. He’d left her confident and smiling, and now even she’d been dragged into it. It couldn’t leave even her alone. His mind, outracing him, found an opposing presence, an enemy, but no name for it; a density of evil, something gigantic, ancient but enduring, only dimly felt before, but now taking the mind by storm; it was working everywhere, in the mirk of rain outside, here in the rotting corners, and without end, in the black between the stars. Margaret never seemed to understand about it, but now it had made her understand or she wouldn’t be calling like that. He’d been telling himself it was high time she did understand, but as he hurried on now to find her, the thought that it had got at her while she had been waiting, smiling there, below, roused him to fury.
As soon as he reached the lower landing, he hastily set down the lamp and ran forward. There was a flash of blue, a flying fair head, and she was clinging to him, her hands grasping the lapels of his coat. She was battling for breath. ‘Morgan—drunk—got hold of me—coming now’ was all that he could catch, but it was enough. The next moment the man himself, incredibly hulking in that light, had appeared, but he stopped short, a few yards away, when he saw the candle and the two of them standing there.
Margaret swiftly turned her head, then tugged at his coat. ‘He’s there. Let’s get away from him.’
Philip shook his head, gave a quick glance round, then fixed his eyes on Morgan’s dark bulk. ‘There’s a doorway just behind us,’ he told Margaret. ‘If he comes on, get behind me and stay in the doorway. There’ll be plenty of time to run afterwards, if it’s necessary.’
‘Let’s go, Philip. I’m terrified of him.’
He watched Morgan steadily. The man was swaying a little, but otherwise he made no movement. ‘He’s probably drunk himself silly and is only wandering about aimlessly. Are you sure he was after you?’
‘He followed me round downstairs,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘I was all alone. Then he caught hold of me, and when I escaped he followed me up the stairs.’ He could feel her trembling. ‘Let’s go now. We might find the others.’
‘I don’t know where they are.’
What was Morgan going to do? Philip watched him with anxiety, for the fellow was obviously as strong as a gorilla and was probably half-crazy, and Philip, though he was fairly tough and was at least sober, was by no means confident that he could stand up to the brute, let alone overpower him. He didn’t even know what exactly he would do if Morgan advanced. He hadn’t used his hands on a man for years, though there was a time when he had known how to box. Nevertheless, he was determined not to turn his back on the man, not to budge. The anger that had been so curiously fired in him on the way down still remained. Whatever the man may have done already, he still seemed a mere foolish lump; but if he changed to anything worse, Philip would oppose him whatever it cost. And anyhow Margaret could easily escape, could run downstairs—not upstairs, to that landing above, to that room.
‘If he comes on,’ he whispered, ‘and you want to escape, slip past and run downstairs. Don’t forget.’