“Room 708, Cub! ...”
She threw the telephone from her and reeled into the hall and toward the vacant suite. Her eyes were right! Cub was not coming. Cub was ... was....
With a listlessness which portrayed great physical effort, she pushed the door open and looked toward the stooped back of Emma; then she swayed steadily toward a low Window sill and sat down. Her eyes were the color of clouds before a thunder storm and she leaned her head against the casing.
Then with that funny clearness which is always part of terror, she began to count the carpet tacks on both sides of two planks in the floor. One, two ... his voice was foggy and distant ... six, seven, eight ... he was irritated.... “I can’t come. I can’t come!”... Cub Sterling was a murderer ... a maniac....
As the thought began forming in her mind she revolted, and the revolt brought energy. Within half a minute after entering the room, she was at Emma’s side, begging:
“He didn’t move, did he? He didn’t move, Emma?”
“Not as I seen, but twicest I sneezed and los’ him, Miss Ferguson. But whin I got him back in, agin, he was settin’ jes th’ same and writin’ away ... liken he is....”
Sally grabbed the binoculars and twisted them painstakingly as she placed the strap over her head. If he hadn’t moved, then perhaps ... but he might have heard the loud Speaker and gone to a ’phone while Emma was sneezing ... would the loud speaker penetrate into that cupola...?
When she focused the figure again she began scrutinizing it. He had turned. Only his back and high shoulder ... but the distance from his ear to his collar wasn’t wasn’t....
Nobody but Cub had shoulders like that! Nobody except Cub sat that way....