They entered a large, square bedroom. Twin beds stood against opposite walls, and heavy dark hangings concealed the windows. These curtains, Mr. Evans drew back, and through the shutters there gleamed the faint gray light of a waning moon. A solitary night-owl made eerie music in the woods.
“Sleep well,” said Charlie’s father. “I’ll call you two at seven. We’ll have breakfast and I’ll explain my problem to you. Good night.”
“Good night, Dad.”
“Good night, sir.”
Mr. Evans departed with a wave of his hand. “I forgot to say,” he added, putting his head inside the door again, “if you wake earlier than seven, don’t raise a row. No bursting into happy song, Charlie....” He grinned at his son, nodded, and was gone.
Bill sat down on his bed and took off his shoes. “I wonder why he warned us about noise,” he remarked as he struggled with a knot.
“Ask me something easy,” yawned Charlie. “You’ll soon find out that there’s more hush stuff about this house than there is at a funeral.”
“Cheerful simile!” grunted Bill. He dropped a shoe, stripped off his outer garments, and got into bed wearing his underclothes.
He was dreaming of masked foes, who kept climbing up from airy depths, to creep on him unawares, when one of these fiends clutched him by the shoulder. Suddenly he found himself sitting up in bed, shaking with the terror of nightmare.
“Are you dead—or what?” Charlie stood beside him, and leaned over to shake him again. Through partly opened shutters daylight streamed into the room.