The intruder—and there must have been one, Ken concluded—had actually been inside the house. Because there had been two other clicks, and another draft of cold air, which must have occurred as the intruder opened the closed door again in order to escape into the darkness.
Ken was out of the kitchen in a flash, and on his knees before the front door. His fingers explored the surface of the polished floor. A few feet inside the threshold there were two patches of dampness.
Ken moved backward carefully, surveying every inch of the smooth surface. He found no further wet spots. It seemed clear that the intruder had taken one step into the hall and then retreated again, apparently frightened off by Ken’s own footsteps in the upper hall.
Ken made one more round of the house, and again assured himself that nothing had been taken or disturbed. His impulse to wake Sandy, and tell him about the whole business, died slowly away. There seemed no point in arousing Sandy, or anybody else, in the middle of the night.
Ken warmed a glass of milk for himself in the kitchen and drank it thoughtfully. Then he went back upstairs, with a book under his arm. But he didn’t turn on his small reading light. He lay on his back, staring up into the darkness and puzzling over the mysterious intruder, until he finally fell into a troubled sleep.
When he woke up, the clock said only seven-thirty, but he got out of bed immediately. The snow had stopped. The world outside was blanketed with white. It was dazzling to Ken’s eyes, even at that early hour of a winter morning.
Sandy opened one sleepy eye as Ken stripped off his pajamas and began to dress. “Where do you think you’re going at this time of night?”
“Downstairs,” Ken said. “And it’s morning. You’d better get up too. I’ve got something to tell you.”
Sandy closed his eye again. “Can’t you tell me here?”
“We’d wake everybody else up.” Ken tied his last shoelace. “Come on. It’s important.”