He stared out of the window.
The dense, opaque shadows pressing down on the garden. The shadows hanging loose and thick on the high, boxwood hedges. The dark, smooth, night sky.
And suddenly a faint tremor ran through him from head to foot. He pressed his face close to the glass. His hands went up screening a small space for his eyes.
In the still block of shadows, in the black mass of them, he had seen something; something had moved against the quiet clumping shadows.
"I say," he whispered. "There's some one coming up through the garden."
"Yes—yes."
They were silent for a long time.
Once he looked at Kurz huddled in the armchair; his face white and drawn; his eyes staring before him.
He thought he heard footsteps coming softly up the stairs; footsteps that came lightly and hesitated and then came on again.
"Charlie—!" Kurz stammered. "Charlie—!"