“I sat up in bed, and looked around. My night-lamp was burning on the table. There was no second person in my room. The hands of the clock marked twenty-five minutes before one.
“I listened. Stillness so deep that I could hear my heart beat.
“What could it be, then, that had awakened me so abruptly?
“I continued to listen. Hark! Did I not hear—yes, certainly, I heard—the sound of voices—of men’s voices—in the room below. Bernard Peix-ada and Edward Bolen were holding one of their midnight sessions. That was all. .
“That was all: an every-night occurrence. And yet, for what reason I can not tell, on this particular night that familiar occurrence portended much to me. Ordinarily, I should have lain abed, and left them to talk till their tongues were tired. On this particular night—why, I did not stop to ask myself—swayed by an impulse which I did not stop to analyze—I got straightway out of bed, crept to the open window, and standing there in the chilling atmosphere, played the eavesdropper to the best of my powers. Was it woman’s curiosity? In that event, woman’s curiosity serves a good end now and then.
“The room in which they were established, was, as I have said, directly beneath my own. Their window was directly beneath my window. Their window, like mine, was open. I heard each syllable that they spoke as distinctly as I could have heard, if they had been only a yard away. Each syllable stenographed itself upon my memory. I believe that I can repeat their conversation word for word.
“Bernard Peixada was saying this: ’You know the number. Here is a plan. The house is a narrow one—only twelve feet wide. There is no vestibule. The street door opens directly into a small reception-room. In the center of this reception-room stands a table. You want to look out for that table, and not knock against it in the dark.’
“‘No fear of that,’ replied Edward Bolen.
“‘Now look said Bernard Peixada; ’here is the door that leads out of the reception-room. It is a sliding door, always kept open. Over it hangs a curtain, which you want to lift up from the bottom: don’t shove it aside: the rings would rattle on the rod. Beyond this door there is a short passage-way see here. And right here, where my pencil points, the stairs commence. You go up one flight, and reach the parlors. There are three parlors in a line. From the middle parlor a second staircase mounts to the sleeping rooms. Now, be sure to remember this: the third step—I mark it with a cross the third step creaks. Understand? It creaks. So, in climbing this second flight of stairs, you want to skip the third step.’
“‘Sure,’ was Edward Bolen’s rejoinder.