considering it from every conceivable angle; then suddenly the
expression of his face changed, he forgot for the moment his ambitions
and his desires, his hatred and his love; he thought he heard the click
of the old-fashioned latch on the front gate. He remembered that it
could be raised only with difficulty. Next he heard the sound of
footsteps approaching the house. They seemed to come haltingly down the
narrow brick path which the wind had swept clear of snow.

Mr. Gilmore was blessed with a steadiness of nerve known to but few men,
yet the hour and the occasion had their influence with him. He stood
erect: now the steps which had paused for a moment seemed to recede; it
was as if the intruder, whoever he might be, had come almost to the
front door and had then, for some inexplicable reason, gone back to the
street. Gilmore even imagined him as standing there with his hand on the
latch of the gate. He was tempted to rouse his two companions, but he
did not, and then, as he still stood with his senses tense, he heard the
steps again approach the front door. With a glance in the direction of
the colonel and his nephew to assure himself that they still slept,
Gilmore rather shamefacedly slipped his right hand under the tails of
his coat, tiptoed into the hall and paused there close by the parlor
door. The steps outside continued, he heard the porch floor give under
a weight, and then some one rapped softly on the door.

Gilmore waited an instant; the rap was repeated; he stepped to the door,
shot the bolt and opened it. The storm had passed; it was now cold and
clear, a brilliant, starlit, winter's night. He saw the man on the porch
clearly as he stood there with the world in white at his back. Gilmore
instantly recognized him, and his hand came from under the tails of his
coat; he closed the door softly.