It was past midnight when Jacopo Contarini barred the door of his house
and was alone. He took one of the candles from the inner room, put out
all the others and was already in the hall, when he remembered that he
had left his winnings on the table. Going back he opened the embroidered
wallet he wore at his belt and swept the heap of heavy yellow coins into
it. As the last disappeared into the bag and rang upon the others he
distinctly heard a sound in the room. He started and looked about him.

It was not exactly the sound of a soft footfall, nor of breathing, but
it might have been either. It was short and distinct, such a slight
noise as might be made by drawing the palm of the hand quickly over a
piece of stuff, or by a short breath checked almost instantly, or by a
shoeless foot slipping a few inches on a thick carpet. Contarini stood
still and listened, for though he had heard it distinctly he had no
impression of the direction whence it had come. It was not repeated, and
he began to search the room carefully.

He could find nothing. The single window, high above the floor, was
carefully closed and covered by a heavy curtain which could not
possibly have moved in the stillness. The tapestry was smoothly drawn
and fastened upon the four walls. There was no furniture in the room but
a big table and the benches and chairs. Above the tapestries the bare
walls were painted, up to the carved ceiling. There was nothing to
account for the noise. Contarini looked nervously over his shoulder as
he left the room, and more than once again as he went up the marble
staircase, candle in hand. There is probably nothing more disturbing to
people of ordinary nerves than a sound heard in a lonely place and for
which it is impossible to find a reason.

When he reached the broad landing he smiled at himself and looked back a