He walked out. The rush of words seemed to have left him spiritually limp and wretched.
Shannon Cole watched him go. Then she bent above the discarded figure of little Tom-Tom, who lay on his back and goggled woodenly up at her. She put out a hand toward him, and her full raspberry-tinted lips trembled. Then she, too, left.
And old Bratton stole from his hiding, to where lay the dummy. Lifting it, he realized that here was what he wanted. Again he spoke aloud—he never held with the belief that talking to oneself is the second or third stage of insanity:
"Clever one, that Gascon. This thing's anatomically perfect, even to the jointed fingers." Thrusting his arm through the slit in the back, he explored the hollow body and head. "Space for organs—yes, every movement and reaction provided for—and a personality."
He straightened up, the figure in his arms. "That's it! That's why I've failed! My figures were dead before they began, but this one has life!" He was muttering breathlessly. "It's like a worn shoe, or an inhabited house, or a favorite chair. I don't have to add the life force, I need only to stimulate what's here."
Ben Gascon, at the stage door, had telephoned for a taxi. He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, and faced old Bratton, who carried Tom-Tom.
"Mr. Gascon—this dummy—"
"I'm through with him," said Gascon shortly.
"Then, can I have him?"
Tom-Tom seemed to stare at Gascon. Was it mockery, or pleading, in those bulging eyes?