Frank felt a desire to look at that grave again. He went down toward it, entering the thick woods. Every step that he advanced seemed to cause the feeling to grow stronger upon him. The woods were silent and deserted. It did not seem possible that there could be a thing of life other than Frank anywhere within them.
All at once, with astonishing suddenness, he came out into the opening and there before him was the grave, the headstone gleaming gray in the dim light.
Frank paused. Involuntarily he listened. He had not forgotten how, on his other visit to the spot, both he and Browning had seemed to hear a mysterious whisper in the air, had seemed to hear a rustle down in that grave, as if the murdered man turned restlessly. Without knowing why he did so, Frank listened again.
"Look!"
He started, for it seemed that he had heard that whisper. He glanced all around.
Silence in the woods. Not even the rustle of a leaf. How lonely it was!
"Look!"
Again that word, coming from he knew not where.
At what should he look? What did it mean?
Then he told himself that it was all his imagination—he had heard no whispered word. He advanced toward the grave; he stood beside it.