The weird sound died, and again silence settled down on the house. Yet somehow the silence seemed now to be worse than that hair-raising groan. Something besides themselves was in the house.
Peter passed his tongue between lips that had grown suddenly dry. He looked at Charles, standing motionless in the doorway. Charles was listening intently; he held up a warning finger.
Softly Peter went across to his side. Charles said under his breath:
"Wait. No use plunging round the house haphazard. Turn the lamp down."
Peter went back, and in a moment only a glimmer of light illumined the room. He drew his torch out of his pocket and stood waiting by the table.
It seemed to him that the minutes dragged past. Straining his ears he thought he could hear little sounds, tiny creaks of furniture, perhaps the scutter of a mouse somewhere in the wainscoting. The ticking of the clock seemed unusually loud, and when an owl hooted outside it made him jump.
A stair creaked; Charles' torch flashed a white beam of light across the empty hall, and went out again. He slightly shook his head in answer to Peter's quick look of inquiry.
Peter found himself glancing over his shoulder towards the window. He half thought that one of the curtains moved slightly, but when he moved cautiously forward to draw it back there was nothing there. He let it fall into position again, and stood still, wishing that something, anything, would happen to break this nerveracking silence.
He saw Charles stiffen suddenly, and incline his head as though to hear more distinctly. He stole to his side. "What?" he whispered.
"Listen!"