He went out into the corridor. There was no light under Breitmann's door. So much the better; he was asleep. Fitzgerald crept down the stairs with the caution of a hunter who is trailing new game. As he arrived at the turn of the first landing, he hesitated. He could hear the old clock striking off the seconds in the lower hall. He cupped his ear. By George! Joining the sharp monotony of the clock was another sound, softer, intermittent. He was certain that it came from the library. That door was never closed. Click-click! Click-click! The mystery was close at hand.
He moved forward. He wanted to get as close as possible to the fireplace. He peered in. The fire was all but dead; only the corner of a log glowed dully. Suddenly, the glow died, only to reappear, unchanged. This phenomena could be due to one thing, a passing of something opaque. Fitzgerald had often seen this in camps, when some one's legs passed between him and the fire. Some one else was in the room. With a light bound, he leaped forward, to find himself locked in a pair of arms no less vigorous than his own.
And even in that lively moment he remembered that the sound in the chimney went on!
CHAPTER X
THE GHOST OF AN OLD RÉGIME
It was a quick, silent struggle. The intruder wore no shoes. It would be a test of endurance. Fitzgerald recalled some tricks he had learned in Japan; but even as he stretched out his arm to perform one, the arm was caught by the wrist, while a second hand passed under his elbow.
"Don't!" he gasped lowly. "I'll give in." His arm would have snapped if he hadn't spoken.
A muttered oath in German. "Fitzgerald?" came the query, in a whisper.
"Yes. For God's sake, is this you, Breitmann?"
"Sh! Not so loud! What are you doing here?"