As he passed the edge of the wood, almost as his foot was on the road, he started. He looked back. The murky shadows of the wood told him nothing; but—that sound! Again that sound! He could have sworn he heard footsteps!
A sudden fear caught him; he turned, and rushed back into the wood, crashing to right and left of him. If he was followed, why, his purpose would be at an end; but he swore to himself, as he rushed here and there, that if he caught the man who had circumvented him, he would kill him on the spot.
Then his fury abated. He grew suddenly quite quiet. There was nothing, after all—nothing.
He wiped his brow and went on.
He tried the latch of the gate, but it was locked. He cared nothing for small obstructions like that. He climbed it easily enough, and went on down the avenue.
As he drew near the house, for the first time fear rose within his heart. But it was a fear that would have made the angels weep.
Was the ladder there? Or had one of the workmen taken it away?
He ran frantically to the break in the laurels from which the house could be seen.
The ladder was there!
He thrust his hand for the last time into his pocket, and felt the knife, and fondled it. Then he went on.