“Becky!” she cried.
I leant over her, my heart beating quick, for she had startled me. I feared that her last hour had arrived. I was mistaken. It was fear of another kind which had aroused her from the contemplation of her special sorrow.
“Don’t you hear?” she asked, presently.
“What?” I exclaimed, following her looks and words in an agony of expectation.
“The next house,” she whispered, “where the man was murdered! The empty house! Something is moving there!”
I threw myself quickly on the bed, and lay by the old lady’s side.
“There, Becky! Do you hear it now?”
“Hush,” I whispered. “Don’t speak or stir! Let us be sure.”
It was not possible that both of us could be dreaming the same dream at the same moment. There was a sound as of some person moving in No. 119.