to come along the hall—nearer and nearer, with the same ominous stealth, to the door of the room in which Varge lay.
Still relaxed, still in repose, not a muscle of Varge's body had flexed by so much as a ripple as he listened; the beat of his pulse was the same calm, strong, even beat as in sleep. And yet every faculty was atune, stimulated to its highest efficiency. What brought Harold Merton, the son of the house, at two o'clock in the morning to the little chamber over the kitchen, that was apart, shut off, from the rest of the dwelling; and brought him stealing there, where none could hear or mark his movements, like some guilty, evil prowler with cautious, frightened tread?
A hand fumbled for the doorknob outside with a curious sound, as though the knuckles were beating a tremulous, involuntary tattoo upon the door as they came into contact with it. The knob turned, the door was pushed slowly inwards, slowly closed again, there was a faint click from the released catch—and against the door, without form or outline in the darkness, was an added opaqueness.
"I am awake"—there was an almost imperceptible pause between Varge's words as he spoke, comparable somewhat to one building the phrase of a strange language one word upon the other, but comparable only in that regard—the pronunciation held no trace of foreign accent. "I am awake"—his tones were quiet, composed. "Why have you come to me in my room in this way, Harold?"
A low gasp, the sharp-drawn intake of a breath, came from the door.
