In the evening, as was her custom, she took the one real meal of the day at the corner restaurant, going early to avoid the crowd and coming back quickly through the winter night. The staircase was always a peril, to be encountered and conquered night after night and even in the daytime not to be lightly regarded. On her way up this night she heard steps ahead, heavy, measured steps that climbed steadily without pauses. For an instant Harmony thought it sounded like Peter's step and she went dizzy.
But it was not Peter. Standing in the upper hall, much as he had stood that morning over the ammunition boxes, thumbs in, heels in, toes out, chest out, was the sentry.
Harmony's first thought was of Georgiev and more searching of the building. Then she saw that the sentry's impassive face wore lines of trouble. He saluted. “Please, Fraulein.”
“Yes?”
“I have not told the Herr Doktor.”
“I thank you.”
“But the child dies.”
“Jimmy?”
“He dies all of last night and to-day. To-night, it is, perhaps, but of moments.”
Harmony clutched at the iron stair-rail for support. “You are sure? You are not telling me so that I will go back?”