“Has he gone, and left me locked in?” he thought, after striving in vain to hear a sound.
Improbable; for he had not heard the door open or close, and he would have seen the dim light from the staircase.
No, not if Stratton had softly passed through the inner door and closed it after him before opening the outer.
“Here, I must act,” he said to himself, mentally strung once more. “He couldn’t have played me such a fool’s prank as that. Now, where am I? The writing table should be straight out there.”
He stretched forth his hand cautiously, and touched something which moved. It was a picture in the middle of a panel, hanging by a fine wire from the rod, and Guest faced round sharply with a touch of his old dread, for he knew now that he had been for long enough standing in a position that would give his enemy—if enemy Stratton was—an opportunity for striking him down from behind.
With the idea growing upon him that his alarm had all been vain, and that Stratton must have gone straight out the moment he had turned down the lamp—either in his absent state forgetting his presence, or imagining that he had gone on out—Guest felt now a strange kind of irritability against himself, and, with the dread completely gone, he began to move cautiously, and pausing step by step, till his outstretched hands came in contact with a bronze ornament, which fell into the fender with a loud clang.
Guest started round once more, knowing exactly where he stood, and facing Stratton, who seemed to have sprung out of his seat.
“Who’s there?” he cried fiercely.
“Who’s there?” retorted Guest. “Why, what’s come to you, man? Where are your lights? Bah!” he added to himself, “have I lost my head, too?”
As he spoke he drew a little silver case from his vest pocket, and struck a wax match, whose bright light showed his friend sunk back in the chair by the writing table, gazing wildly in his face.