He became suddenly aware that his hand was again in his overcoat pocket, closed tightly over the butt of the revolver. His hand came out and the revolver with it, and he stood there with his forearm extended, the weapon in plain sight, peering around, downstairs and up, like a villain in a melodrama. If the door of the landing had at that instant opened and one of the art students had appeared, he would probably have pulled the trigger without knowing it.
His hand returned to his pocket and then came out again, empty, and sought the railing as he mounted another step, and another, and then stopped once more.
Oh you would, would you, he said to himself, and he felt his lips twist into a grimace that tried to be a smile. No you don’t, you don’t go back now, this time you go ahead, if it’s only to point it at her and let her know what you think she’s fit for.