Page:Weird Tales Volume 27 Number 02 (1936-02).djvu/106

track," Winslow muttered. "I can see an upright semaphore to indicate that all's clear ahead. I keep waiting for the semaphore to drop, but it never does. I—I thought at first the semaphore was what I was so afraid of. But it isn't that; it's the door—the platform door."

"Try not to think about it, Arthur."

His shrill voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "Each time I've dreamed it, I've seen that rear platform door opening stealthily, inch by inch, behind me. I've known that something was trying to come out, something small and persistent. Last night the—the thing came out. . . . It—it was so small, Ella! Its head barely reached to the knob of the door. It stood there on the platform behind that figure of me. . . . Ella, it—it wants to kill me!"

"You've worked too hard lately, that's all. It's not like you. One of the biggest cotton-goods manufacturers in New York; a tall, good-looking son at Yale; our lovely daughter married to a perfectly grand son-in-law; not a single worry in the whole wide world. And you have to invent a silly dwarf in a conductor's uniform to ruin your digestion and—and"—her calm voice quavered—"and frighten me half to death."

"I'm sorry, Ella." He swung her face to his and kissed her, tremulously.

Watching his shaking fingers as they turned the pages of his morning newspaper, Ella thought: "How thin he has become, how horribly nervous!" She had suspected that something was wrong with him ever since that night six weeks before when Arthur had leaped from bed, wide awake, cringing with terror, fumbling for the light button.

"Nightmare," he had muttered with a strained smile, and had pretended to go back to sleep. Ella knew now that it had been only pretense; he must have lain awake for hours in a cold sweat of fear.

He threw his crumpled newspaper on the table. "It's a warning," he said stonily. "Someone is planning to kill me. A—a dwarf conductor with a chalk-white face and round, staring eyes. There was—blood on his face. . . ."

"It's nine-thirty, Arthur," his wife reminded him unsteadily.

Winslow nodded vacantly. She touched his arm finally, and he shrugged, rose stiffly from the breakfast table and walked into the high-ceilinged living-room. He was placing a thin sheaf of typewritten papers in a leather brief-case when the telephone bell rang. The maid who answered it announced that Philip was waiting downstairs with the car. Winslow relaxed. The maid looked at him queerly; it was not like the master to bark at her so gruffly. She came hesitantly toward him and helped him with his coat.

"Wait!" Winslow said suddenly. "Stop a minute!"

The telephone bell was ringing again.

"I'11 answer it," Mrs. Winslow said. . . . "Why, yes; he's still here. . . . Certainly."

She handed the instrument to her husband. "A long-distance call. From Philadelphia."

Winslow talked for a minute or so and hung up. "It was Harrison Crane, reminding me about that plant merger. The details have been ironed out sooner than Crane expected." He stared at his wife, his face suddenly white. "Crane wants me to—to take the train for Philadelphia immediately."

Mrs. Winslow dropped the last pathetic shred of pretense.

"Don't!" she cried anxiously. "Arthur, don't take that train! The car is downstairs. Let Philip drive you."

"Damned queer, isn't it?" He smiled haggardly. "Last night, the dream. This morning, the train. I have no intention