Would the day never come? He looked at the clock, crookedly upheld by misshapen gilded cupids.
Only a quarter to twelve.
Slowly, slowly, the minutes ticked away. The night was dying hard.
Presently, Quality noticed that madame had laid down her needles and was again listening. Her tense attitude, flattened ears, and craning neck told of an intensity of purpose that would strain her aural organs beyond the limits of their powers.
He saw her sudden start—the involuntary wince.
‘Footsteps, m’sieur! Do you not hear them? Footsteps without in the street!’
‘I can hear nothing!’
‘But they are passing this way. Open the window, and see if there is anyone in the street!’
What was she? Quality could not decide. Merely the shrewd, suspicious housewife, with natural fears—or the composite fearsome creation of his diseased imagination?