"No." He reconsidered that brief answer, and contradicted himself.
"Yes--the library fire has burned low, I suppose."

In my position at the table, I had seen the fire: the grate was heaped
with blazing coals and wood. I said nothing. The pale change in his
face, and his contradictory reply, roused doubts in me which I had hoped
never to feel again.

He pushed away his glass of wine, and still kept his eyes fixed on the
closed door. His attitude and expression were plainly suggestive of the
act of listening. Listening to what?

After an interval, he abruptly addressed me. "Do you call it a quiet
night?" he said.

"As quiet as quiet can be," I replied. "The wind has dropped--and even
the fire doesn't crackle. Perfect stillness indoors and out."

"Out?" he repeated. For a moment he looked at me intently, as if I had
started some new idea in his mind. I asked as lightly as I could if I
had said anything to surprise him. Instead of answering me, he sprang to
his feet with a cry of terror, and left the room.

I hardly knew what to do. It was impossible, unless he returned
immediately to let this extraordinary proceeding pass without notice.
After waiting for a few minutes I rang the bell.

The old butler came in. He looked in blank amazement at the empty chair.
"Where's the master?" he asked.