Whilst thus thinking vaguely, purposelessly, but still most miserably, I
was aroused from reverie by the noise of a door being shut cautiously
and carefully--an outer door, and yet one with the sound of which I was
unacquainted.
Hurrying across the hall, I flung the hall-door wide, and looked out
into the night. There was sufficient moonlight to have enabled me to
discern any object moving up or down the lane, but not a creature was in
sight, not a cat or dog even traversed the weird whiteness of that
lonely thoroughfare.
Despite Munro's dictum, I passed out into the night air, and went down
to the very banks of the Thames. There was not a boat within hail. The
nearest barge lay a couple of hundred yards from the shore.
As I retraced my steps, I paused involuntarily beside the door, which
led by a separate entrance to the library.
"That is the door which shut," I said to myself, pressing my hand gently
along the lintel, and sweeping the hitherto unbroken cobwebs away as I
did so. "If my nerves are playing me false this time, the sooner their
tricks are stopped the better, for no human being opened this door, no
living creature has passed through it."
Having made up my mind on which points, I re-entered the house, and
walked into the drawing-room, where Munro, pale as death, stood draining
a glass of neat brandy.
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