Now as this bedroom was a counterpart of her own she knew where the

light button would be. She might stumble over a chair or two, but in the

end she would find the light. The fingers of one hand spread out before

her and the other clutching the impossible automatic, she succeeded in

navigating the uncharted reefs of an unfamiliar room. She blinked for a

moment after throwing on the light, and stood with her back to the wall,

the automatic wabbling at nothing in particular. The room was empty so

far as she could see. There was evidence of a physical encounter, but

she could not tell whether it was due to the former or to the latter

invasion.

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Where was he? From where she stood she could not see the floor on the

far side of the bed. Timidly she walked past the foot of the bed--and

the transient paralysis of horror laid hold of her. She became bereft of

the power to grasp and hold, and the automatic slipped from her fingers

and thudded on the carpet.

On the floor lay poor Johnny Two-Hawks, crumpled grotesquely, a streak

of blood zigzagging across his forehead; to all appearances, dead!




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