Close behind her words I
remember this singular thing, however--that an atmosphere as of the
Inquisition seemed to rise and stir about the room, beating awful wings
of black above my head.
Abruptly, then, a moment's common sense returned to me. I faced her.
"And the Noise?" I said aloud, more firmly, "the roar of the closing
doors? We have all heard that! Is that subjective too?"
Frances looked sideways about her in a queer fashion that made my flesh
creep again. I spoke brusquely, almost angrily. I repeated the question,
and waited with anxiety for her reply.
"What noise?" she asked, with the frank expression of an innocent child.
"What closing doors?"
But her face turned from grey to white, and I saw that drops of
perspiration glistened on her forehead. She caught at the back of a
chair to steady herself, then glanced about her again with that sidelong
look that made my blood run cold. I understood suddenly then. She did
not take in what I said. I knew now. She was listening--for something
else.
And the discovery revived in me a far stronger emotion than any mere
desire for immediate explanation. Not only did I not insist upon an
answer, but I was actually terrified lest she would answer.
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