He started and held his breath with fear. Somewhere down stairs a board
creaked loudly, then another. He went to the door, and opening it a
little way, but without looking out, listened. The house was so still
that he could hear the ticking of the old clock in the kitchen below. He
opened the door a little wider and peeped out. As he did so there was a
sudden sharp outcry on the stairs, and he drew back into the room and
stood trembling before he had quite realized that the noise had been made
by the cat. The cry was unmistakable; but what had disturbed it?

There was silence again, and he drew near the door once more. He became
certain that something was moving stealthily on the stairs. He heard the
boards creak again, and once the rails of the balustrade rattled. The
silence and suspense were frightful. Suppose that the something which
had been Fletcher waited for him in the darkness outside?

He fought his fears down, and opening the door, determined to see what
was beyond. The light from his room streamed out on to the landing, and
he peered about fearfully. Was it fancy, or did the door of Fletcher's
room opposite close as he looked? Was it fancy, or did the handle of the
door really turn?

In perfect silence, and watching the door as he moved, to see that
nothing came out and followed him, he proceeded slowly down the dark
stairs. Then his jaw fell, and he turned sick and faint again. The
library door, which he distinctly remembered closing, and which,
moreover, he had seen was closed when he went up stairs to his room, now
stood open some four or five inches. He fancied that there was a
rustling inside, but his brain refused to be certain. Then plainly and
unmistakably he heard a chair pushed against the wall.