But though absolutely destitute of fear, he was by no means destitute of caution; and as he sat smoking and waiting, he was revolving in his mind the question of calling in help.
That involved leaving the house, and that might involve total failure.
At any moment the quarry might return. He decided to wait.
The door of the room and the door leading to the verandah were open, so that he could easily hear the approach of anyone from the back premises and quite as easily the approach of anyone from the hall door.
It was after half-past two now. The house was deathly still; there was not even the ticking of a clock, the whisper of a breath of wind from the garden outside or the movement of a mouse behind the wainscotings to break the silence.
Occasionally the rumble of a passing vehicle came from the road, nothing more.
It was after three when the watcher suddenly started, sat straight up in the armchair and listened intently.
The front garden gate had been opened and shut with a clang, a step sounded on the gravel and a loud double rap at the hall door brought Freyberger to his feet.
He sprang from the room, came down the passage, undid the chain and bolts of the hall door, unlatched it, flung it open and found on the steps a telegraph boy.
“Gyde?” said the boy, holding out a telegram.