“Who’s in the house besides ourselves? Any stranger?”
“Yes, one.”
“Which is his room?”
“No. 9, on the next floor,” said the landlord, who had never been so puzzled and alarmed in his life.
Peace rushed back into his bedroom, snatched up the chamber candlestick, and flew up the wide staircase, never pausing till he had reached the upper floor. The door of the No. 9 bedroom was wide open.
Our hero entered the apartment, which was tenantless. He rushed into each of the other rooms on the same floor.
One was occupied by the little maid who acted as supplementary waitress—another was tenanted by an old woman, and another was where the potman slept. All the occupants were scared at beholding our hero with his revolver in one hand, and his chamber candlestick in the other.
In answer to his queries they one and all declared they had neither seen nor heard anybody about since they had retired to rest, with the exception of their interlocutor.
At the further end of the passage was a double window, which opened sideways on hinges, as is often the case in old English houses and inns. One of the casements of this was partially open.
Peace’s suspicions were aroused at once. He ran to the window, threw it back, and looked out. At the further extremity of the roof he beheld the figure of a man who flung himself off the roof on to one of the branches of a large chestnut tree, by means of which he reached the ground in safety.