Bristol arose and once more went out to the gate. He had arranged to visit Morris’s post every half-hour. Again I experienced the nervous dread that he would be attacked in the avenue; but again he returned unscathed.
“All’s well,” he said.
But from his tones I knew that he had not forgotten that it was at this hour Marden and West had suffered mysterious attack.
Neither of us, I think, was disposed to talk. We both were unwilling to break the silence, wherein, with all our ears, we listened for the slightest disturbance.
And now my attention turned anew to the course of the slowly creeping moon rays. In my mind an idea was struggling for definition. There was something significant in the lunar lighting of the room. Why, I asked myself, had the attack been made at one o’clock? Did the time signify anything? If so, what? I looked toward Bristol.
His figure, the chair upon which he sat, were sharply outlined by the cold light. The wall behind me, and to my left, was illuminated brilliantly; but no light fell directly upon me.
The idea was taking shape. From the loggia and the avenue Bristol, I reasoned, must be clearly visible. From the shrubbery on the south, through the other windows could I be seen? Yes, silhouetted against the moonlight!
A faint sound, quite indescribable, came to my ears from somewhere outside-beyond.
“My God!” whispered Bristol. “Did you hear it?”
“Yes! What?”