A mere strip of garden separated the house from the road, but Sam kept it bright with flowers for eight months of the year. The front of the house was painted a pale stone-colour; the porch, the door, and the two quartets of tall, extremely narrow windows were coloured white. Altogether it provided a gay relief from the sober moorland behind it. Across the road, and separated from it by a deep ditch usually dry in summer, lay a strip of moor gently sloping upwards to the wood, through which a path supplied a short cut from the station to the village. There was no other dwelling within five minutes’ walk.
When John Corrie’s eyes began dimly to discern the house he slowed his pace till he was stealing forward with every appearance of caution and alertness. Suddenly he stopped short, dropped on hands and knees, and let himself down into the ditch where he crouched, holding his breath.
A vague figure was coming hurriedly from behind the house. On reaching the road it broke into a shambling run, its dark garment flapping like the wings of some huge night bird. As it passed the lurking watcher it panted and sobbed. Presently it disappeared round a bend, and the watcher heaved a sigh of angry relief. That was the worst of women: they could do nothing without making a fuss!
He drew himself from the ditch, and now his head and most of his face were covered with a heavy black muffler. Keeping to the grass, he darted towards the house. Opposite it, he halted for a moment, almost overcome by the thudding of his heart. Just then he perceived a thin smoke rising from the rear of the house—from the attached shed; he guessed that contained the postman’s store of coal and wood. That nerved him again. It was now or never.
Dropping his bludgeon, he brought from his pocket a hank of thin, strong rope, shook it out and tip-toed across the road. He was about to fasten one end to the door handle with the view to securing it to a pillar of the porch, when he bethought himself of another, though barely possible way. With fearful care he turned the handle—and lo, the door gave! Chance had favoured him! Sam had forgotten to lock it—not for the first time.
Sweating, John Corrie opened the door about a foot, put round his hand and removed the key from the lock. Then with infinite gentleness he drew the door shut, inserted the key, turned it and withdrew it. Almost fainting he recrossed the road, took up his staff, and fell rather than descended into the ditch.
A faint breeze was stirring at last. Smoke blown over the tarred roof of the shanty drifted to his nostrils. For a while, fingering the key, he seemed to hesitate; then, turning, he tossed it from him among the heather. The rope he coiled up and let fall at his feet. He crouched, staring at the house.
And presently a spark floated up, hovered and died. But others followed, thicker and thicker, and a glow appeared under them. Crackling sounds broke the silence, softly, timidly at first, but soon with noisy boldness. The breeze gained in strength. A fiery tongue waved above the roof, subsided, rose again and licked the tarry surface; ere long it was joined by others. A low roaring mingled with the crackling. The narrow windows were still dark, but smoke began to stream from the ventilator over the door. Woe to the sleeper if he did not waken now!
Cold with terror, fascinated by horror, Corrie knelt in his lair and gazed and gazed. Suddenly a light sprang into being in the room on the left—a small light that lasted but a moment. The sleeper had wakened and struck a match. Corrie wondered if he would wait to light a candle, but in the next moment the windows went dark. Sounds followed: a cry, the noise of a chair overturned, hurried footfalls on a bare plank floor. Then Corrie put his hands under the muffler and thrust his fingers in his ears. For the inmate was trying to open the door.
The flames were now rising high above the roof; smoke was pouring from the ventilator, trickling from under the door and through crevices about the windows and walls. A reddish glow behind the windows on the left caused the watcher to shut his eyes. But he could no longer close his ears to agony, for the prisoner was raining blows with some heavy implement on the door and lock. Once more Corrie was roused to action. What if the holder of the letter should escape with it after all? He readjusted the black muffler about his head till little more than his eyes remained uncovered, took a fresh grip on his staff, and held himself in readiness. The blows became frantic.