His retreating footsteps, also, were audible for some distance before the sound of them died away; and Warner knew then that the door belonged to the cabaret, and that behind its bolted shutters and its police seals Wildresse had been lurking since his return from Saïs.
There was no need to use his torch as he crept out of his ambush and entered the narrow lane behind the big cask.
With infinite precautions, he thrust his arm through the open panel, felt around until he found the two bolts, slid them noiselessly back.
The door swung open, inward. He went in softly.
The place appeared to be a lumber room littered with odds and ends. Beyond was a passage in which a gas jet burned; at the end of it a stairway leading up.
The floor creaked in spite of him, but the stairs were carpeted. They led up to a large butler's pantry; and, through the sliding door, he peered out into the dim interior of the empty cabaret.
Through cracks in the closed shutters rays from the setting sun pierced the gloom, making objects vaguely distinct—tables and chairs piled one upon the other around the dancing floor, the gaudy decorations pendent from the ceiling, the shrouded music stands, the cashier's desk where he had first set eyes on the girl Philippa——
With the memory his heart almost ceased, then leaped with the resurgence of his fear for her; he looked around him until he discovered a leather swinging door, and when he opened it a wide hallway lay before him and a stairway rose beyond.
Over the thick carpet he hastened, then up the stairs, cautiously, listening at every step.
Somewhere above, coming apparently from behind a closed door, he heard the heavy vibration of a voice, and knew whose it was.