with a curious feeling of mingled relief and apprehension. The very first thing he did was to open the closet door. There was absolutely no doubt about it this time. The arms of the statue had moved downward to an almost horizontal position. The hands—they were nearly completed! But they had changed. The fingers were bent as if to grasp something—they looked like small pink claws.
The marble dust, Winters saw, was thick about the base of the statue. One foot was poised, with knee lifted high as though the statue were about to step off the pedestal!
Winters slowly raised his eyes and looked at the face. It was twisted in a rather frightful leer. Winters shut the closet door and leaned weakly against it. He locked it carefully and walked out of the study, mopping his damp face with a handkerchief. His mouth was strangely dry, and his face was pale.
Tomorrow would be the seventh day.
Late that night, he heard the now familiar chipping of stone. The noise this time, was fast and furious, almost—eager. Winters did not get out of bed. He knew it would be no use. After a little while, the sounds ceased. The statue, then, was finished.
Winters did not venture downstairs next morning until almost noon. When he did, he stayed as far away as possible from his study. In an agony of dread and apprehension he waited for the arrival of Sir Arthur, from the city.
Sir Arthur did not come.
By mid-afternoon, Winters was almost frantic.
Finally, he tiptoed into his study. There was a telephone on his desk.
Swiftly he dialed the operator, and staring fixedly at the closet door, waited for his call to be put through.
Sir Arthur Manwell, dealer in antiques and objects d'art answered. Yes, he was sorry, he was desolated, but he had not been able to keep the appointment. No, he would not be able to come down to make the appraisal until tomorrow. Sometime in the morning— What? What was the matter?
But it was impossible. An important matter had come up—he had to remain at the shop—and—
"I don't care!" Winters shrieked into the mouthpiece, suddenly panic-stricken. "You've got to come down! Today, you hear? I've got the damned thing locked up in the closet, but the week's up, I tell you. The week's up!"
Sir Arthur informed him politely—and frigidly, that he would arrive tomorrow morning.
"But the statue!" shrilled Winters. "The statue!"
There was the audible click of the man hanging up.
"Operator, operator!" Winters dialed frantically.
Abruptly he froze.
Behind him. The sound of a splintering wood. A door smashing open . . .
The closet door . . .?
Involuntarily, Winters dropped the receiver on its hook, and trembling, stared straight ahead.
A soft thud of something striking the carpet. Then the quick pattering of footsteps across the floor.
Winters worked his mouth convulsively, but before he could scream, he was seized by the throat.
Like Winters, Sir Arthur Manwell was a very punctilious man. So it was that he arrived in Hammondville early the next day to see Winters on the matter of the statue. It so happened that when he arrived, there was a rather large crowd of people clustered about Winters' house. Managing to get in, he saw the police and the coroner probing about Winters' study.
