Subtle warnings of danger floated over my senses between sleeping and waking, and each time I dropped into a doze I awoke with a start, to see only the dimly-lighted forms of my men before me, and to hear only the sweep and whistle of the wind outside and the dash of water against the shutters. Thrice I had been aroused thus, when, on the borderland between dreams and waking, a voice reached my ear.
“S-s-t! What was that?”
I sprang up, wide-awake, revolver in hand. It was Lockhart who spoke. We all strained our ears to listen. There was nothing to be heard but the moan of the wind and the dash of water.
“What was it?” I whispered.
“I don't know.”
“I heard nothing.”
“It was a coo-hoo—like the call of an owl, but—”
“But you thought it was a man?” Lockhart nodded. Brown and Wilson had not heard it.
“Was it inside or outside?”
“It was out here, I thought,” said Lockhart doubtfully, pointing to the street that ran by the side of the hotel.