Suddenly he whirled to the window. "Oh, now I see," he said harshly. "There's no tree of any kind beyond the window!"
"Nor anything to make that shadow," added Tenny.
They stood for a few moments scrutinizing the glass and looking through it into the clearing outside. The line of trees to the south was too far for any shadow to reach the house; the trees were shadowed in an uneven line across the clearing below. Then they returned to the bed and stood looking down at the counterpane.
"Well, there has to be some explanation," said Tenny.
Follansbee nodded. "But I don't get it," he said. Then he stopped abruptly, staring down at the parallelogram of moonlight widening eyes.
Tenny followed the older man's startled gaze.
There, in the moonlight, was a tiny, moving shadow—a shadow only slightly over two inches in height, moving with incredible rapidity, yet achieving no distance in the parallelogram of moonlight—the figure of a man!
Back and forth it ran within a space so small that it might have been covered by the extended palm of a hand. The two men stared in growing amazement. Then Follansbee turned to the window again. But there was nothing there—nothing on the glass, nothing against the glass outside, nothing flying against the moonlight in the sky.
He turned back to the bed. The shadow was still there. He bent, peering intently. The incredible shadow was running wildly, this way and that, its tiny arms outflung, its spindle-legs moving rapidly upon the counterpane, a thing alive, yet without substance.
"Good God," muttered Tenny at last. "It's a man—it's a live man. But where is he?"