Such was my mood, then, when suddenly Paul Harley stood up. My eyes
were growing more and more used to the darkness, and from something
strained in his attitude I detected the fact that he was listening
intently.
He placed his cigarette on the table beside the bed and quietly crossed
the room. I knew from his silent tread that he wore shoes with rubber
soles. Very quietly he turned the handle and opened the door.
"What is it, Harley?" I whispered.
Dimly I saw him raise his hand. Inch by inch he opened the door. My
nerves in a state of tension, I sat there watching him, when without a
sound he slipped out of the room and was gone. Thereupon I arose and
followed as far as the doorway.
Harley was standing immediately outside in the corridor. Seeing me, he
stepped back, and: "Don't move, Knox," he said, speaking very close to
my ear. "There is someone downstairs in the hall. Wait for me here."
With that he moved stealthily off, and I stood there, my heart beating
with unusual rapidity, listening--listening for a challenge, a cry, a
scuffle--I knew not what to expect.
Cavernous and dimly lighted, the corridor stretched away to my left.
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