All this had taken but hardly a minute. Then he stood up and looked at his master. "The time comes," he said.
Johnnie nodded, and walked slowly, with quiet footsteps, towards the door in the arras at the other side of the room.
He felt warily for the handle, found it, turned it gently, and saw a narrow stairway stretching upwards, and lit by a lamp somewhere above. The stair was uncarpeted, but it was of old and massive oak, and, drawing his sword, he crept cautiously up, Hull following him like a cat.
They found themselves in a corridor with doors on each side, each door painted with a big white number. It was lit, warm, and very still.
Johnnie put his fingers to his lips, and both men listened intently.
The silence was absolute. They might have been in an empty house. No single indication of human movement came to them as they stood there.
For nearly a minute they remained motionless. Their eyes were fixed and horror-struck, their ears strained to an intensity of listening.
Then, at last, they heard a sound, quite unexpectedly and very near.
It came from the door immediately upon their right, which was painted with the number "3," and was simply the click of a sword in its scabbard. Johnnie took two noiseless steps to the door, settled his sword in his hand, flung it open, and leapt in.
He was in a large low room panelled round its sides, the panels painted white, the beadings picked out in crimson. A carpet covered the floor, a low fire burnt upon a wide open hearth. There were two or three padded sofa lounges here and there, and in front of the fire-place in riding clothes, though without his hat or gloves, stood Sir John Shelton.