him. The line of yellow was a line of light, and it came, no doubt,
from underneath a door, and the door, no doubt, was that behind which
the three men waited. Mitchelbourne stopped. After all, he reflected,
the three men were English officers wearing His Majesty's uniform,
and, moreover, wearing it stained with their country's service. He
walked forward and tapped upon the door. At once the light within the
room was extinguished.

It needed just that swift and silent obliteration of the slip of light
upon the floor to make Mitchelbourne afraid. He had been upon the
brink of fear ever since he had seen that lonely and disquieting
house; he was now caught in the full stream. He turned back. Through
the open doorway, he saw the avenue of leafless trees tossing against
a leaden sky. He took a step or two and then came suddenly to a halt.
For all around him in the darkness he seemed to hear voices breathing
and soft footsteps. He realised that his fear had overstepped his
reason; he forced himself to remember the contempt he had felt for
Lance's manifestations of terror; and swinging round again he flung
open the door and entered the room.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said he airily, and he got no answer
whatsoever. In front of him was the grey panel of dim twilight where
the window stood. The rest was black night and an absolute silence. A
map of the room was quite clear in his recollections. The three men
were seated he knew at the table on his right hand. The faint light
from the window did not reach them, and they made no noise. Yet they
were there. Why had they not answered him, he asked himself. He could
not even hear them breathing, though he strained his ears. He could
only hear his heart drumming at his breast, the blood pulsing in his
temples. Why did they hold their breath? He crossed the room, not