She leaned closer and grasped his arm.
"Right here, George. And if he—It must have been just like this—this time of night—when he—George! Can't we turn on the lights?"
He swallowed hard.
"Why not send out a call for the patrol? What do you mean, if he—"
She shivered.
"I don't like places where people have died hard. That's what I felt when I came in here. But you—you're not afraid?"
He turned momentarily from his work. He tried with indifferent success to fill his voice with challenge. Afterwards he looked up expectantly as though he was far from certain the challenge might not be accepted.
"Afraid! A man with a red heart afraid of dead ones! They never come back."
"Don't say that. I know. My mother told me such things. She was Italian. She knew. She saw. George, don't say that. It's like cursing the dead. And he lay right there, didn't he, George, between you and the safe? That's why Slim stayed outside. Maybe Slim killed him. I want to go, too. Let Simmons hold the lamp."
"No," George said. "That thing he wears isn't human company. You stay."