“Who?” I cried. “Richard Manx!”
And I jumped up, and began to dress myself. Heaven only knows why, for I had no intention of going out of my bedroom.
“Yes, Richard Manx,” replied Fanny.
“Have you heard anything?”
“Yes, like some one taking up the floor.”
“A loud noise then, Fanny.”
“No—everything’s being done soft—like a cat moving; but there’s a crack sometimes, and a wrench, just the noise that would be made if boards were being taken up.”
These words set me all in a fever. Richard Manx was getting desperate, and did not mean to give up his search without examining everything in the room. What if he should discover the document he is looking for? It would be he, then, who would hold the winning cards. The thought was torture. It seemed to me as if I were within reach of your happiness, your safety, of the vindication of your honour, and as if they were slipping from me.
“Are you sure it is Richard Manx who is in the next house?” I asked.