in the darkness.

But of all those doors up and down the hall, which would be hers? There
was no reasoning which could help him in the midst of that puzzle. He
walked to what he judged to be the middle of the hall, turned to his
right, and opened the first door. A hinge creaked, but it was no louder
than the rustle of silk against silk.

There were two windows in that room, and each was gray with the dawn,
but in the room itself the blackness was unrelieved. There was the one
dim stretch of white, which was the covering of the bed; the furniture,
the chairs, and the table were half merged with the shadows around them.
Andy slipped across the floor, evaded a chair by instinct rather than by
sight, and leaned over the bed. It was a man, as he could tell by the
heavy breathing; yet he leaned closer in a vain effort to make surer by
the use of his eyes.

Then something changed in the face of the man in the bed. It was an
indescribable change, but Andrew knew that the man had opened his eyes.
Before he could straighten or stir, hands were thrown up. One struck at
his face, and the fingers were stiff; one arm was cast over his
shoulders, and Andy heard the intake of breath which precedes a shriek.
Not a long interval--no more, say, than the space required for the lash
of a snapping blacksnake to flick back on itself--but in that interim
the hands of Andy were buried in the throat of his victim.

His fingers, accustomed to the sway and quiver of eight-pound hammers
and fourteen-pound sledges, sank through the flesh and found the
windpipe. And the hands of the other grappled at his wrists, smashed
into his face. Andy could have laughed at the effort. He jammed the shin