I stepped forward, cautiously
The manager was watching me as well, now, with knit brows. But this was no time to consider him.
Crocker was having some difficulty in reading the list of names. His finger went back to the top of the board, and again began wobbling slowly down from line to line.
I tiptoed past him. He did not turn.
I went on up the stairs, but not quite to the top. T hank God, Heloise did not know—not yet.
From this point I could not see him. I waited.
Finally—it seemed a long time, but I suppose it was not more than two or three minutes, really—he appeared at the foot of the stairs. He was swaying a very little. On his face was the crafty expression I had seen there once or twice during our talk in the morning; his eyes had narrowed down to slits. Curiously enough, he was still pale, not red, as I should naturally expect in the case of a man as drunk as he. If he saw me at all, waiting there a little way from the top of the stairway, the sight of me meant nothing to his disordered mind.
He placed one foot on the bottom step, stopped and put his hand to his mouth (standing motionless, as if trying to think), then brought out his knife. He drew it from the sheath. It had a wicked blade—designed for desperate, primitive uses, I should say. The sheath he returned to his pocket.
Then, with a curiously set, almost businesslike expression on his face, he came running up the stairs.
I blocked the way, holding out both arms.