instantly back to the time when he had discovered the side window in the living room open—the time when Mr. Morley had been chloroformed.
Silently, noiselessly, Eddie crept along the hall, for some unknown reason hugging the wall. At the door, of the living room he paused, merging himself with the shadows. For a full minute he listened, hearing nothing. If there had been any one there he would surely have heard something—the sound of breathing, a board creaking underfoot, the soft pad of feet across thick rugs. It is not possible to move about in a room without leaving some trace for the auditory senses, some trail of movement. Sounds are comparative things, and the creaking of a board, however slight, is as audible in the stillness of the night as a pistol shot in broad daylight, if one is listening.
Softly Eddie entered the living room. Against the lightened darkness of the window his eye caught the delicate tracery of the lace curtains, not hanging quietly, as was their wont, but blowing inward slightly. He advanced to the window and inspected it. It was open.
He glanced around at the living room, which he could see dimly, now that his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness. Nothing was disturbed, nothing had been moved. The room was as it always had been.
But not quite. There was a difference, nothing tangible, nothing that one could put his hand on, but there was a feeling of change in the air, a feeling that someone who did not belong had been there. Rooms are like persons; they have their moods, moods of happiness and of gloom, of rest and of restlessness; everyone who has a favorite room in his home knows this.
