CHAPTER VI
THE EYES IN THE NIGHT
A belated sense of humour was stirring in Bill Wilder as he passed on to the quarters he had selected for his occupation. The room, he felt certain, was that usually occupied by his invisible hosts. Convinced of their secret surveillance of his movements he believed they would surely witness his audacious usurpation of their private apartment. It was the thought of this that brought the smile to his eyes. He was wondering what form their very natural resentment would take, for he had no doubt whatever as to what would happen with the position reversed. Anyway, he felt he was playing a trump card for bringing them into the open, and that, at present, was the thing he most desired. He would chance the rest. Meanwhile further speculation was useless, and he shrugged his broad shoulders, and his smile vanished under his resolve. He was determined on a prolonged vigil. He would pretend sleep and—await developments.
That was his purpose. But he failed to reckon with Nature and a vigorous, healthy body. And, furthermore, he had forgotten the oppressive humidity which weighed heavily upon the faculties. He had also forgotten that he had been bodily occupied for something like eighteen hours of the endless daylight. So it came that within five minutes of flinging himself fully dressed upon the dishevelled bed he fell into a deep slumber of the completely weary.
How long he slept he never knew. He was dreaming chaotically. He seemed to be deeply concerned with a hideously misshapen mountain from the sight of which it was impossible to escape. It was lofty, and heavily snow-clad, and its fantastic shape continually changed, assuming absurd likenesses to still more stupid things. First it looked like his block of offices in Placer. Then it resembled the Irishman Mike, with flaming top instead of red hair. Then, again, it somehow flattened out to a burlesque of the barren surroundings of Loon Creek, only to leap again into the shape of a golden domed palace with a watch tower reaching far up into the clouds. The last kaleidoscopic variation it assumed was the huge head of a dark-faced man, crowned with snow-white hair that streamed down over shoulders completely hidden under its dense cloak, and with a pair of eyes flaming with a fire that became agony to gaze upon. It was the lurid horror of those eyes that finally startled him into actual wakefulness. And he found himself sitting on the side of his bed staring at something that sufficiently resembled the nightmare horror of his dream to leave him in doubt of its reality.
He passed a sweating palm across his forehead. It was a gesture of uncertainty. Then, in a moment, full realisation came, and he leapt to his feet and his challenge rang out vital and determined.
“Not a move!” he cried. “Move and you’re dead as mutton! You’re covered! An’, sure as God, I’ll drop you at the first sign!”
He moved a step forward. His body was half crouching, and his fully loaded automatic pistol was leading threateningly.
There was no movement in response to his threat and he remained just where his first step had carried him, while horrified curiosity, as he gazed on the spectacle framed between the silken curtains of the arched entrance to the room, replaced his urgency of a moment before.
It was a man and a woman. And they were standing side by side. They were both something diminutive. Particularly was this the case in the woman. The man was sturdily built, with lank, snow-white hair that reached from the crown of his head, and hung down upon his broad shoulders. A long, snowy beard covered his chest with such luxuriance that it almost seemed part of the mane that flowed down to his shoulders. But all this, striking as it was to the just awakened man, was quickly lost sight of in the painful vision of a pair of eyeless sockets that gaped at him, filled and surrounded with vivid inflammation.