And all this was
really one flash of light through my mind. A comforting thought
succeeded it: that both doors were locked and that really there
was no danger.
However, there had been that noise--the why and the how of it? Of
course in the dark he might have fallen into the bath, but that
wouldn't have been a faint noise. It wouldn't have been a rattle.
There was absolutely nothing he could knock over. He might have
dropped a candle-stick if Therese had left him her own. That was
possible, but then those thick mats--and then, anyway, why should
he drop it? and, hang it all, why shouldn't he have gone straight
on and tried the door? I had suddenly a sickening vision of the
fellow crouching at the key-hole, listening, listening, listening,
for some movement or sigh of the sleeper he was ready to tear away
from the world, alive or dead. I had a conviction that he was
still listening. Why? Goodness knows! He may have been only
gloating over the assurance that the night was long and that he had
all these hours to himself.
I was pretty certain that he could have heard nothing of our
whispers, the room was too big for that and the door too solid. I
hadn't the same confidence in the efficiency of the lock.
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