IV
From his form among the frost-blackened rag-weeds, the trap-robber could see only the plastered ceiling of the bed chamber.
But the kerosene lamp cast two shadows on that — tall shadows of human shapes that stirred at times.
The trap-robber, scared, stiffened to immobility, but his little eyes remained fastened on the camera obscura above. All the cunning, patience, and murderous immobility of the rat were his.
Not a weed stirred under the stars where he lay with tiny, unwinking eyes intent upon the shadows on the ceiling.
* * * * *
The shadows on the ceiling were cast by Eve Strayer and her State
Trooper.
Eve sat on her bed's edge, swathed in a lilac silk kimona — delicate relic of school days. Her bandaged feet, crossed, dangled above the rag-rug on the floor; her slim, tanned fingers were interlaced over the book on her lap.
Near the door stood State Trooper Stormont, spurred, booted, trig and trim, an undecided and flushed young man, fumbling irresolutely with the purple cord on his campaign-hat.
The book on Eve's knees — another relic of the past — was Sigurd the Volsung. Stormont had been reading to her — they having found, after the half shy tentatives of new friends, a point d'appui in literature. And the girl, admitting a passion for the poets, invited him to inspect the bookcase of unpainted pine which Clinch had built into her bedroom wall.