He stood there trembling in the shadow of the blank wall, huddling close to it for support and for protection. They passed him, and he heard Rosie’s quiet laugh. Her laugh was one of the things about her that he had loved most. They stopped at the door, and Rosie took out her latchkey. It was almost a repetition of the scene in which he had shared a week before. Now, perhaps, she would kiss him. He felt that if he saw her kissing Griffin he could have killed them both. Murderer’s Cross Road. . . . A hundred thoughts came swirling through his brain. They entered, and closed the door behind them. Griffin: the old Griffin: the human beast of St. Luke’s. The new Griffin: the gross North Bromwich womaniser: the Griffin of Dr. Harris’s surgery. . . . Edwin saw himself upon the edge of a ghastly, unthinkable tragedy. He must prevent it. At all costs. At the cost of life if needs be. He crept quickly across the road. The houses watched him. The window of the lower room bloomed suddenly with a yellow light. He stood with his hands clutching the window-sill, listening. Once again he heard Rosie’s laugh, and a rumour of deeper speech that he knew to be the voice of Griffin. The shadow of Griffin’s shoulders swept the window, swelling gigantically as it passed. The light was turned down, but not extinguished. Rosie’s laugh again. He could have killed her for that laugh, for it mocked him. The faint shadow of the man’s shoulders retreated. He guessed that they were standing at the door. The door of the room closed softly. Now there was no sound except the heavy breathing that one hears in the neighbourhood of a pigsty at night. Was Griffin still there? Another beam of light fell on the shining street. Some one had lighted the gas in the room upstairs. Was Griffin still below? Panic seized him. He must know. At all costs he must know. Dr. Harris’s surgery. . . . If he had to break in the front door he must know. As he reached it he tripped over an iron boot-scraper. The step barked his shin. Of course the door was locked, but—wonder of wonders—Rosie had left the latchkey outside. He opened the door softly and went on tip-toe into the hall. In the room on the right he still heard the grunting noise. Thank God, Griffin was still there! At least he could tell him that he knew! He opened the door. In the half-light he could see that the room was empty except for Mrs. Beaucaire, who lay stretched on the sofa, snoring heavily with her vile mouth open. On the table stood an empty brandy bottle. The place stank of brandy. Now he knew the worst. He stumbled upstairs in the dark and knocked frantically at the door of the front bedroom. Rosie answered: “Who is it?” “It’s I. For God’s sake, let me in.” “Who the devil is it?” said the voice of Dr. Harris’s consulting-room. Rosie answered him in excited whispers.