up her mind, and she was a hard woman—her soul a blending of diamond and fire-kissed steel.
"I'll get you!" and she thought of a new, better way. She would corner the Thing.
Again she advanced, slowly, cautiously, step by step, driving the Thing before her across the width of the room, always keeping uppermost in her mind the thought of Bunny Whipple and his silly fool of a golden-haired wife—the thought which was paralyzing the Thing's faculty of bloating and shrinking and flying.
The end came very suddenly.
Watching her chance, she had the Thing cornered, straight up against the inlaid Chinese screen.
It tried to shrink—to bloat—to fly—to get away.
But Diana had timed her action to the click of a second. She brought the dagger down—with all her strength—and the Thing crumpled, it gave, it was not.
There was just a sharp pain, a crimson smear, and a very soft voice from a far, starry, velvety distance.
"You have killed me, Diana!"
"Killed—whom? Who are you?"
"The evil in your soul, Diana! The evil—" then
