He reached the ladder, put his foot on it, and mounted. He began to climb quickly, yet with a dogged determination to make no mistake. There should be no false step.
When he was half-way up he looked down. Beneath was an area that surrounded the whole house—an area lately cemented. It was broad and white and clean. In the darkness it made a sort of light.
He turned his eyes from that and looked up. The window above was open—wide open; the sash had not been replaced.
He mounted still higher. The sill was almost within his reach; he put out his hand to grasp it, but it fell short. Another rung or two, and then—-
Suddenly he made a lurch forward and clung to the ladder. The ladder was swaying to and fro. He made a quick rush upwards and put out his hand to grasp the ledge of Dillwyn's window—but he was still too low for that.
The ladder was swaying heavily from side to side; it was now almost on the very edge of the sill. Soon it would be over. Something from below must be dragging it—dragging—-
He made a frantic dash at the sill—and missed it!
Again the ladder swayed, this time towards the desired sill. Darkham braced himself for a last effort. He made a dash and sprang on to the sill of Dillwyn's room.
That precipitated the end. The ladder, reaching the edge, toppled over and went with a crash to the cemented area below.
Darkham, clutching on to the sill, saw the fall of the ladder. That meant death unless help came soon; and who was to give him help? The man he had come to murder?