I darted away from him.
‘What’s that?’ I cried, low in a fit of terror.
‘Who’s there?’ he called quietly; but he did not stir.
We gazed at each other.
The knock was repeated, sharply and firmly.
‘Who’s there?’ Diaz demanded again.
‘Go to the door,’ I whispered.
He hesitated, and then we heard footsteps receding down the corridor. Diaz went slowly to the door, opened it wide, slipped out into the corridor, and looked into the darkness.
‘Curious!’ he commented tranquilly. ‘I see no one.’
He came back into the room and shut the door softly, and seemed thereby to shut us in, to enclose us against the world in a sweet domesticity of our own. The fire was burning brightly, the glasses and the decanter on the small table spoke of cheer, the curtains were drawn, and through a half-open door behind the piano one had a hint of a mysterious other room; one could see nothing within it save a large brass knob or ball, which caught the light of the candle on the piano.