Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. But now it was all over, and Alice was getting on well. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. ‘Come,’ she called. He did not have to.
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