“Who is it?”
“Leslie.”
“For God’s sake, open the door!”
I unlocked it and threw it open. He retreated before me, with his hands out, and huddled against the wall beside the window. I struck a match. His face was drawn and distorted, and he held his arm up as if to ward off a blow.
I lighted the lamp, for there were no electric lights in the forward house, and stared at him, amazed. Satisfied that I was really Leslie, he had stooped, and was fumbling under the window. When he straightened, he held something out to me in the palm of his shaking hand. I saw, with surprise, that it was a tobacco-pouch.
“Well?” I demanded.
“It was on the ledge,” he said hoarsely. “I put it there myself. All the time I was pounding, I kept saying that, if it was still there, it was not true—I’d just fancied it. If the pouch was on the floor, I’d know.”
“Know what?”
“It was there,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “It’s been there three times, looking in—all in white, and grinning at me.”
“A man?”