She turned into the alley, entered Zerkow's old home by the ever-open door, and ran up-stairs to the room.

Nobody.
"Why, isn't this FUNNY," she exclaimed, half aloud, standing on the threshold, her little milk-white forehead curdling to a frown, one sore finger on her lips.

Then a great fear seized upon her.

Inevitably she associated the house with a scene of violent death.
"No, no," she said to the darkness, "Mac is all right.

HE can take care of himself." But for all that she had a clear-cut vision of her husband's body, bloated with seawater, his blond hair streaming like kelp, rolling inertly in shifting waters.
"He couldn't have fallen off the rocks," she declared firmly.
"There--THERE he is now." She heaved a great sigh of relief as a heavy tread sounded in the hallway below.