He paused and listened. Was that a woman sobbing? Of course not. Only
his nerves, his silly sentiment. He would go home and forget the
whole thing.
There it was again. This time he could not be mistaken. Noiselessly he
made his way toward the sound. It stopped. But presently it came again.
From where? Ah, yes, the window with a broken pane.
Soft, heartbroken, smothered wailing. Spasms of it. Then an interlude of
silence. Adrian's heart beat rapidly. He tip-toed to the window, tried
the door beside it. Locked. After a moment's hesitation he spoke,
softly: "Is someone in trouble?"
CHAPTER XX
A CALL IN THE NIGHT
There was no answer. For a second time Adrian's mind fought a belief
that sense had tricked him. Now and then a shout from the bar-room
reached him as he waited, listening. The wind whistled eerily through
the scant-leaved scrub-oaks on the slopes above.
But from the room at the window of which he listened there came no
sound.
Adrian felt like one hoaxed, made ridiculous by his own sentimentality.
He strode on. But when he reached the farther corner some involuntary
impulse turned him back. And again the sound of muffled sobbing came to
him from the open window--fainter now, as though an effort had been made
to stifle it.
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