Blyth had left it. No neighbors came home in cabs, no bawling
drunken men wandered into the remote country fastnesses of the new
suburb. The night-breeze, blowing in from the fields, was too light to
be audible. The watch-dog in the nurseryman's garden hard by, was as
quiet on this particular night as if he had actually barked himself
dumb at last. Outside the house, as well as inside, the drowsy reign of
old primeval Quiet was undisturbed by the innovating vagaries of the
rebel, Noise.
Undisturbed, till the clock in the hall pointed to a quarter past
eleven. Then there came softly and slowly up the iron stairs that led
from the back garden to the studio, a sound of footsteps. When these
ceased, the door at the lower end of the room was opened gently from
outside, and the black bulky figure of Mat appeared on the threshold,
lowering out gloomily against a back-ground of starry sky.
He stepped into the painting-room, and closed the door quietly behind
him; stood listening anxiously in the darkness for a moment or two;
then pulling from his pocket the wax taper and the matches which he had
bought that afternoon, immediately provided himself with a light.
While the wick of the taper was burning up, he listened again.
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