to try to tell myself that the sound was a dream only, an imagined voice that had no basis in reality. For all that it was subdued, the sound was entirely sharp and clear, impossible to mistake. And instantly I knew its source. Some one had opened my door. There was no other possible explanation. Nor had it been [Pg 81]merely the harmless mistake of one of the guests, confusing my room with his own. I heard the door open, but I did not hear it close. Nor did I hear departing steps along the corridor. [Pg 81] My nightly visitor had come in stealth, and there was nothing to believe but at that instant he was waiting in the darkness on the other side of the room. It isn’t easy to decide what to do at a time like this. I was perfectly willing to simulate slumber if by so doing I could increase my own safety. Florey’s affair was still fresh in my mind. A cruel and cold-blooded murder had been committed at Kastle Krags earlier this same night: this tip-toeing visitor in my room was in all likelihood a desperate man, willing to repeat his crime if his own safety demanded it. My possessions were few: it was better to let them go than take such a risk. Yet a wiser, saner self told me that this was no business of thievery. The thing went deeper, further than I could see or guess. I lay listening: from time to time I could hear the boards settle beneath his feet. Evidently he was groping about the darkened room, in search of something.... Then a faint jar told me that his hand was on the iron railing of my bed. [Pg 82] [Pg 82] It wasn’t a reassuring thought that he had been groping about the room solely to find my bed. My muscles set for a desperate leap in case I felt him groping nearer.... There was a long, ominous instant of silence. Then a little triangle of light danced out over my table-top. It was a ray from a flashlight, and it came and went so soon that there was no chance to make accurate observation. I did, however, see just the edge of his hand as he reached for something on the flat surface of the table. It was a white, strong hand—long, sensitive fingers—evidently the hand of a well-bred, middle-aged man. The light flashed out. Steps sounded softly on the floor. Then my door closed with a slight shock. There is no use trying to
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