“Is that you, Mr. Lewis?”
It was Mrs. Jordan’s voice, from the basement.
Had she then seen him come in? Not necessarily. Perhaps she had heard his footsteps on the stairs; or, since that was unlikely on account of the carpet and the pains he had taken to mount softly, possibly he had knocked the revolver against the rail when he took it out of his pocket or as he put it back.
“Is that you, Mr. Lewis?”
He trembled from head to foot. He turned his head and looked behind him and down, sidewise, looking at nothing, like a treed coon. Well, he thought, for god’s sake use your brain if you’ve got one. Either you answer her or you don’t. He opened his mouth and no sound came.
It was only three or four steps to the first landing. He suddenly ran up them, quietly and rapidly, trying to make no noise at all. At the top he whirled around the corner, and as he did so, the tail of his overcoat described a wide semicircle, there was a rattle and a clatter as the little lamp with the parchment shade tumbled to the floor onto the bare wood, beyond the edge of the carpet. It banged against the wall; then silence.
He had jumped as if shot; and now he thought, well you goddam fool what are you going to do? Are you going to answer her or not?