It was, in fact, exactly as he had left it earlier in the day. The room bore not the slightest evidence of having been entered during his absence, nor was there anything large enough to afford a human being a place of concealment.
As he stood stupidly surveying the room, the whisper of the invisible menace once more sounded in his ear!
With a cry of terror, Peret whipped out his automatic and, blindly fanning the air in front of him, pulled the trigger until the magazine was empty. A picture fell to the floor with a crash and bits of plaster flew from the walls and ceiling. Scarcely waiting until the last shot was fired, Peret snatched the key off the floor and slipped it in the keyhole.
As he threw open the door, the Thing again whispered in his ear and brushed his face with its clammy breath. With a yell, the Frenchman precipitated himself into the hall with such vigor and rapidity of action that he fell sprawling. Bounding to his feet, he grabbed the knob and violently slammed the door.
“Victory!” he shouted, and his joy was excessive. “Ah, monster! cochon! boyeux! Thing or devil! Whatever you are, I’ve got you now! Oui!”
He shook his fist at the door and hurled at the imprisoned horror a string of excited invective.
“Your hour is come. Your shot is bolt! Assassin! Ghoul! Voila! how you frightened me—me, the Terrible Frog! Dame! I am trembling a little yet, I think.”
A number of doors along the corridor opened, and men and women in night attire stuck their heads out cautiously.
“I say, old top, what’s coming off?” asked one of the startled individuals, catching sight of Peret.
“Nothing,” shouted Peret, and wiped the dew from his forehead.