Of a sudden, however, Vincott stopped.
"Listen!" he whispered.
I strained my ears until they ached. Behind us, in the quiet of the night, I could hear footsteps creeping and stealthy, not very far away. Vincott drew me into an angle of the wall, and we waited there holding our breaths. The footsteps slid nearer and nearer. Never since have I heard a sound which so filled me with terror. The haunting secrecy of their approach had something in it which chilled the blood--the sound of a man on the trail. He passed no more than six feet from where we stood. It was Otto Krax; and we remained until we could hear him no more. Vincott wiped his forehead.
"If he had stopped in front of us," I said, "I should have cried out."
"And by the Lord," said he, "I should have done no less."
A hundred yards further on, Vincott stopped again.
"He has found out his mistake," he exclaimed in a low, quavering voice.
We listened again; the footsteps were returning swiftly, but with the same quiet stealth.
"Quick!" said Vincott, "against the wall!"
"No," said I, "he is tracking along the side of it. Let us face and pass him."