There was no sound to break the silence. The figure in the oak chair sat motionless. He might have been carved out of stone, for any sign of life he gave. He looked like stone,—white and black marble very finely sculptured,—white marble in head and hands, black marble in the piercing eyes, the long satin dressing-gown, the oak of the big chair. Even his eyes seemed stone-like, motionless, and fixed thoughtfully on space.
To those perceptive of “atmosphere” there is a subtle difference in silence. There is the silence of woods, the silence of plains, the silence of death, the silence of sleep, and the silence of wakefulness. This silence was the last named. It was a silence alert, alive, yet very still.
A slight movement in the room, so slight as to be almost imperceptible, roused him to the present. Life sprang to his eyes, puzzled, questioning; his body motionless, they turned towards the middle window of the three, from whence the movement appeared to have come. It was not repeated. The old utter silence lay upon the place; yet Nicholas Danver kept his eyes upon the curtain.
The minutes passed. Then once more came that almost imperceptible movement.
Nicholas Danver’s well-bred old voice broke the silence.
“Why not come into the room?” it suggested quietly. There was a gleam of ironical humour in his eyes.
The curtains swung apart, and a man came from between them. He stood blinking towards the light.
“How did you know I was there, sir?” came the gruff inquiry.
“I didn’t know,” said Nicholas, accurately truthful. “I merely guessed.”
There was a pause.