It was such a stillness that enveloped us. Even Stodger's irrepressible good-humor failed to cheer. The old mansion was possessed of a thousand voices, strange, indefinable noises that kept our attention constantly divided; yet the night was so still that I could hear our watches ticking in our pockets.
The result was that the cipher received only scant attention from me. I would get only fairly absorbed in my task when Stodger would startle me with a sudden "Ssh!" or a no less startling command to "Listen!" Whereupon we would both sit straining our ears to hear—nothing.
Every few minutes one or the other of us, or both together, would go over the entire house, examining doors and windows and making sure that no one had entered since the last tour of inspection.
This was repeated so many times that Stodger himself grew glum, and at last signified a determination to turn in. He made himself comfortable on the big library divan,—the same divan which had held Belle Fluette's motionless form only a few hours previous,—wrapped himself in a heavy blanket from Felix Page's bed, and was soon fast asleep; or, at least, he offered audible evidence that he was.
Again I tried to fasten my attention upon the cryptic parchment; but it was of no use. In spite of myself, my head would jerk up to a listening attitude every time a board creaked or I fancied I heard a door somewhere in the house being cautiously opened. Time after time I would be sent stealthily to some remote corridor or chamber, only to return again to the library no wiser than before.
I finally thrust the cipher back into my pocketbook and resigned myself to a lonely vigil. The great library was a place of shadows and dark recesses, as well as of silence; and had it not been for the regular, stertorous breathing of the sleeper, I might have wished myself well out of it.
The hours dragged along—midnight, one o'clock, two, half-past, and still I did not rouse Stodger; I never had less desire to sleep. During one of my excursions through the empty, echoing rooms I set down my lantern—we had provided ourselves with this convenience—and looked out into the night. The pleasant weather of the past few days had ended; it was dark—very dark—and an occasional flake of snow, materializing ghostlike within the square of light from the lantern, scraped along the small diamond panes with a feathery touch.
Presently I entered Felix Page's bedroom. And here, for the first time that night, I was sensible of an absolute stillness. Not even a board creaked. Not a breath stirred the leafless boughs outside, nor rattled the withered vines on the walls. Then of a sudden I grew rigid, tensely alert, and watchful. From somewhere a breath of icy outdoor air struck upon my face and hands.
Now whatever else might be said of this old house, it was not a place of drafts. Its walls were thick and solid, its doors massive, and the doors and windows were snug-fitting; therefore, the fact that I now felt a perceptible rush of air could signify but one thing—that an outside door or window had been opened.
During a brief pause I hesitated over whether I should rouse Stodger; but so slight a warrant decided me not to. A shout from any part of the house, should he be needed, would accomplish the purpose quite as well.