“Or—what——” said Maida.
A remnant of common sense saved me, I think, from stark terror. I took a firmer hold on my imagination.
“Nonsense,” I spoke decidedly but still, for some reason, in a whisper. “There are no such things as—as—— I mean to say, the shadow you saw was either an optical illusion or a living, breathing person.”
“Certainly,” agreed Maida, adding inconsistently: “I don’t see how a living person could have got past us, through this long corridor without one of us seeing him—it.”
My eyes fell on the south door near at hand; the tiny panes of glass winked blackly at me as I crossed to it, grasped the brass latch and pulled. The door swung slowly open, letting in a current of cold, mist-laden air.
“There, you see?” I said to Maida. “Only a real, material thing needs a door to go through.”
Maida was looking at me strangely.
“I don’t see that that helps matters any,” she said. “I locked that door myself, to-night. It just proves that someone was actually here. That the murderer is still about the hospital.”
“Not necessarily,” I said, though my heart was pounding in my throat. “You are sure you locked it?”
“Positive.”