Always that sense of
danger around him--the tense, bated expectancy of momentary attack--a
revolver flash through the darkness--a sudden rush upon him. But still
there was nothing--only the darkness, only the silence.
He gained the head of the stairs and began to descend--and now the
strain began to tell upon his nerves again. Again he was possessed of
the mad impulse to cry out, to do anything that would force the issue,
that would end the horrible, unbearable suspense. Why did that revolver
shot not come? Why had they not yet rushed upon him? Why were they
playing with him as a cat with a mouse? Or was it all wild, fanciful
imagination? NO! What was that again! He could have sworn this time that
he had heard a sound, but he could neither define its character, nor
locate the direction from which it had come.
He was at the foot of the stairs now; and, guiding himself by the wall,
moving now barely an inch at a time, he reached the library door that
he had left open, and stole in over the threshold. Halfway down the room
and diagonally across from where he stood was the window. In a moment
now he could gain that, but they would never let him go so easily--and
so it must come now, in that next moment, their attack! Where were they?
Where were they now? The table--he must remember not to bump into the
table! A pause between each step, he was crossing the room.
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