“Why, don’t you remember? A little man shot Johnny Sprig with a little gun yesterday morning—the same little man that killed Cock Robin with a bow and arrow. It’s all a horrible game—and I’m afraid. . . . But I mustn’t tell—I can’t tell. The little man might do something awful. Maybe”—her voice became dull with horror—“maybe he has some insane idea that I’m the old woman who lived in a shoe! . . .”
“Come, come, Mrs. Drukker.” Vance forced a consoling smile. “Such talk is nonsense. You’ve let these matters prey on your mind. There’s a perfectly rational explanation for everything. And I have a feeling that you yourself can help us find that explanation.”
“No—no! I can’t—I mustn’t! I don’t understand it myself.” She took a deep, resolute inspiration, and compressed her lips.
“Why can’t you tell us?” persisted Vance.
“Because I don’t know,” she cried. “I wish to God I did! I only know that something horrible is going on here—that some awful curse is hanging over this house. . . .”
“How do you know that?”
The woman began to tremble violently, and her eyes roamed distractedly about the room.
“Because”—her voice was barely audible—“because the little man came here last night!”
A chill passed up my spine at this statement, and I heard even the imperturbable Sergeant’s sharp intake of breath. Then Vance’s calm voice sounded.
“How do you know he was here, Mrs. Drukker? Did you see him?”