Noiselessly, swiftly he crossed to the window, and pulling back the curtain an inch or two peered out into the small garden with its one tree and border of shrubs.
There was no sound and nothing moved.
"Strange!" he muttered, "I could have sworn some-one knocked."
He jerked back the curtains so that they rasped on the brass rod, letting in the almost blinding glare of the full moon which drew a nimbus from the silvery head and threw shadows which danced and gibbered by the aid of the log fire over the walls and ceiling, and in and out of the open safe.
He turned, but stopped abruptly when half-way across the room, standing stock still with his back to the window.
There was a faint distinct tapping as though slender fingers were beating a ghastly, distant drum.
It stopped—it continued—it stopped.
Then fell one little solitary rap like a drop of water falling on a metal plate, and it died away into silence.
And Sir Jonathan threw up his fine old head and laughed.
"Surely I've got India on the brain to-night, and as surely I want a good long holiday," he said, as he sat down at his desk and picked up his pen. "And I must remember to tell the gardener to clip that tree to-morrow. How Jan will laugh when I tell him that I was absolutely scared by a branch rubbing against the window."