And they went out of the studio, closing the door behind them. But Jim Horton hesitated, glancing back at the door.
"I wonder if there could have been any mistake," he muttered. "Eight o'clock. I don't understand——"
"Jeem," said Piquette, "I do not like de look of dis. I am afraid——"
She peered down into the obscurity suddenly and put her fingers to her lips.
"Some one is coming," she murmured. "It is——" she paused, listened, and then caught him by the arm. "It is not a woman,—it is a man. Listen."
He obeyed, catching her meaning and its significance quickly. The footsteps were surely not those of a woman, and the stairs to the floor below creaked heavily.
"A man! Who?" he muttered.
"It is what I fear'. We mus' 'ide—somewhere—quick!"
The door of the hall-room Jim had slept in was near them. Tiptoeing over to it quickly, the girl behind him, he tried the knob. It yielded and they entered its darkness, leaving the door wide enough open so that they could look out. The man was now climbing up the stair and reached the landing. If either of them had expected to see Barry Quinlevin they were disappointed, for the figure was heavier, strangely similar to Jim Horton's, and like him wore a dark overcoat and slouch hat. And while they peered out at him, the man hesitated, looked up at the transom and then turned the knob and entered the studio, closing the door carefully behind him. Jim Horton had felt Piquette's fingers clutch his arm and questioned in a whisper.
"What is it, Piquette?"