On his toes he drifted outward. In the main room he saw no living thing. Quietly he set the lamp on the floor, its beam glaring at the stair door. With a swift grab he turned the knob and tore the door open.
Then, gun leveled, he stood and gaped.
The stairway was utterly empty.
CHAPTER IX
DALTON’S DEATH
A long minute dragged by while Douglas stood there, the drone of the crickets gnawing at his nerves. Then he pounced at the lamp and bounded up the stairs. At the top he halted and glared around the attic.
Nothing was there.
The tiny windows at either end, heavily coated with spider-webs, were shut as usual. Not a web was broken. Nowhere, except where one little pane had long been missing, could he see any opening into the barren room. He moved about, and the boards groaned loudly under him. They had not groaned under that ghostly unknown.
He returned down the stairs, and the steps creaked and squeaked as he passed. He slammed the door and went about the room, inspecting every door and window. All was as he had left it on retiring. He even glanced into the little wood-room. That, too, was unchanged.
“H’m!” he muttered. Pausing at the water-bag, he gulped a drink. After once more staring around, he returned to the bedroom.
Back into his tumbled blankets he got. As the strangled flame of his lamp slowly died he reached to his trousers, dug out his watch, and glanced at it. It was now eight minutes after midnight.