relief. Black ugly shadows. Dark corners illumined.
There was nothing in the room.
Winters grunted, and reached again for the light switch. He froze. The sound had recommenced; it was distinctly audiible, and it seemed to come from the closet.
Winters went over and opened the closet door. Probably rats, he thought, peering through the darkness of the closet.
No rats.
Winters frowned and looked more carefully. There was no corner where a rat might hide. Winters looked at the statue, standing there in the corner, and his breath hissed softly between his teeth. He distinctly remembered having draped a sheet over it, before going to bed.
But now the sheet lay on the floor.
Well, then.
Rats could drag down sheets.
Large rats.
Frowning, Winters picked up the sheet and stood staring at the statue, before covering it. The general appearance of the statue had changed; it was not quite right somehow.
Winters shook his head angrily, and went back to his room. Rats, no doubt. He was not the sort of man to be bothered by such occurrences. Perhaps half an hour after going to bed, he was roused again.
The same sounds. Grating, rasping, scratching noises. Oddly muffled they were. Coming from downstairs. Winters swore softly and tried to sleep.
The next day Winters examined the statue critically. There was, he observed, a peculiar quality to the Dawn Child's smile—an oddly unpleasant quality—and the arms of the statue did not look quite right.
And the hands, Winters could see—were changed. As if someone had been working on them. With a sculptor's chisel!
He did not bother to puzzle the matter out. Methodical and precise as ever, he cleaned up the shards of marble, and went about his business for the day.
Possibly some prankster—or his imagination. Or it might be the rats. Gnawing. No matter. He would make sure.
A substantial remainder of the morning, he spent in setting rat traps in likely spots throughout the house. Later, he would see about selling the statue.
That afternoon, Winters called several dealers in antiques, and objects d'art. There was, it seemed, little or no demand, of unfinished statues. No, he could find no buyer anywhere. After the dozenth call, Winters hung up, disgusted, and sat meditatively staring into space for several seconds. His thoughts were not pleasant. It was probably the first time in his life he had failed to come out winner in a business transaction.
The remainder of the afternoon, he brooded over it. Mentally he kicked himself a dozen times for having failed to take advantage of the young sculptor's offer. He should have let De Roults finish—
Winters' brows furrowed. Had not De Roults said something about—about finishing the statue!
But—De Roults was dead.
Mentally Winters kicked himself again,
That night, before going to bed, Winters investigated the entire study thoroughly. Everything was in perfect order. The statue was covered, the closet was locked, the windows and the doors were all barred.
Winters grunted in satisfaction and then went to bed.
Three hours later he was roused suddenly. He could hear nothing now, save the faint echo of a somehow familiar sound, seeming to echo in his ears. Possibly one of the rat traps going off, he de-
