"It must be so!" reasoned Markham within himself; "that stranger has not deceived me:—the presence of this pocket-book here is an undeniable trace of the miscreant. Oh, how much it now behoves me to convince myself that he is indeed removed from the theatre of his crimes!"
Subduing as much as possible the painful emotions which that letter had suddenly excited within him, Markham secured the pocket-book about his person; for now that accident had revealed to him to whom it belonged, he did not consider himself called upon to part with an object which, in case the statement of Tidkins' death should prove untrue, might contain some paper calculated to afford a clue to his haunts or proceedings.
Scarcely decided in what manner to pursue his investigation in that house, and trusting more to accident than to any settled plan to aid him in testing the truth of the self-accused stranger's statement relative to Tidkins,—Markham stole softly up the staircase.
Arrived on the first landing to which it led, he listened attentively at the various doors which opened from it.
All was silent as death within the rooms to which those doors belonged.
Not even the sound of human respiration met his ears. Could it be possible that the house was deserted? Perhaps the bustle which he had heard ere now was caused by the departure of its occupants?
As this idea grew upon him, he was emboldened to try the latch of one of the doors at which he had already listened. It yielded to his hand; he pushed the door open with great caution, and entered the chamber.
Not a human soul was there.
He visited the other rooms upon that landing, the doors of which were all unlocked; and they were alike untenanted.
There was another storey above; and thither he proceeded.