Another step or two and his eyes would be on a level with the floor above, and he would be able to see the light in the crack under the door.
He removed his right hand from the rail and thrust it into his overcoat pocket where it closed once more around the butt of the revolver. His other hand, holding the key, rested against the wall; and as he moved up another step and the hand came suddenly into contact with a nail that had been driven into the plaster he jerked it away nervously, and dropped the key, which fell to the edge of the wooden step.
He glanced upwards quickly—had she heard it—of course not—and then stooped and picked up the key, gleaming dully in the dim light.
The voice from the room was no longer heard, but his head seemed more than ever full of voices, a monstrous medley that pounded at his temples…it’s you who are the rat…for god’s sake, Mil…timid, vengeless, actionless.…