“All right,” said Dicky. “But just sleep on a hair-trigger to-night.”
“Good night,” I said, as I turned toward my room, and Dicky, with an answering word, took his way toward the Borton place.
I had grown used to the silent terrors of my house. The weird fancies that clung around the gloomy halls and dark doorways still whispered their threatening tales of danger and death. The air was still peopled with the ghosts of forgotten crimes, and the tragedy of the alley that had changed my life was heavy on the place. But habit, and the confidence that had come to me with the presence of my guards, had made it a tolerable spot in which to live. But as we stumbled up the stairway the apprehensions of Dicky Nahl came strong upon me, and I looked ahead to the murky halls, and glanced at every doorway, as though I expected an ambush. Porter and Barkhouse marched stolidly along, showing little disposition to talk.
“What's that?” I exclaimed, stopping to listen.
“What was it?” asked Barkhouse, as we stopped on the upper landing and gazed into the obscurity.
“I thought I heard a noise,” said I. “Who's there?”
“It was a rat,” said Porter. “I've heard 'em out here of nights.”
“Well, just light that other gas-jet,” I said. “It will help to make things pleasant in case of accidents.”
The doors came out of the darkness as the second jet blazed up, but nothing else was to be seen.
Suddenly there was a scramble, and something sprang up before my door. Porter and I raised the revolvers that were ready in our hands, but Barkhouse sprang past us, and in an instant had closed with the figure and held it in his arms.