The two men stood in the darkness, silent and with beating hearts. A glimmer of light came from the fire and struck across into the bedroom. Leonard listened with all his ears. He distinctly heard stealthy footsteps coming along the passage, which was on the other side of the wall against which stood the wardrobe. The footsteps paused at the sitting-room door. They heard this open, and scarcely dared to breathe. Some one entered the room, and waited for a moment or so, evidently listening. Then the door was opened and closed again, and the footsteps died away. Even then Brendon stopped Leonard from lighting the candles.
"Go to bed in the dark," he said softly.
"Was it Mrs. Jersey?" asked Leonard.
"Of course it was. She came to see if you were in bed."
"But why should she?"
"I can't say. There's something queer about that old woman. Get to bed, Leonard. You can light your candle in your own room. I shall not light mine."
Train was bursting with indignation. "But it's absurd to be treated like a couple of schoolboys," he said, taking his candlestick.
"There's more in it than that," said Brendon, pushing him to the door. "Get to bed, and make no noise. We can talk in the morning."
Train darted across the sitting-room, and retired. Brendon closed his door softly, and listened again. There was no return of the footsteps, so he slipped into bed without relighting the candle. The clock in the sitting-room chimed a quarter past eleven.