He took the manuscript from the window-seat, and brought it to the fire.

He kept his fire always burning now; the warmth brought out the last
vestige of odour of the flowers with which his room was banked. He did
not know what time it was; long since he had allowed his clock to run
down--it had seemed a foolish measurer of time in regard to the
stupendous things that were happening to Oleron; but he knew it was late.
He took the _Romilly_ manuscript and knelt before the fire.

But he had not finished removing the fastening that held the sheets
together before he suddenly gave a start, turned his head over his
shoulder, and listened intently. The sound he had heard had not been
loud--it had been, indeed, no more than a tap, twice or thrice
repeated--but it had filled Oleron with alarm. His face grew dark as
it came again.

He heard a voice outside on his landing.

"Paul!... Paul!..."

It was Elsie's voice.

"Paul!... I know you're in... I want to see you...."

He cursed her under his breath, but kept perfectly still. He did not
intend to admit her.

"Paul!... You're in trouble.... I believe you're in danger... at least
come to the door!..."