When one hour had passed without incident, his attention relaxed a
little. His eyes were gradually closing when suddenly something seemed
to stir at the door. The Chinese vase came rattling to the floor.

At once Ernest sprang up. His face had blanched with terror. It was
whiter than the linen in which they wrap the dead. But his soul was
resolute.

He touched a button and the electric light illuminated the whole
chamber. There was no nook for even a shadow to hide. Yet there was no
one to be seen. From without the door came no sound. Suddenly something
soft touched his foot. He gathered all his will power so as not to
break out into a frenzied shriek. Then he laughed, not a hearty laugh,
to be sure. A tiny nose and a tail gracefully curled were brushing
against him. The source of the disturbance was a little Maltese cat, his
favourite, that by some chance had remained in his room. After its essay
at midnight gymnastics the animal quieted down and lay purring at the
foot of his bed.

The presence of a living thing was a certain comfort, and the reservoir
of his strength was well nigh exhausted.

He dimly remembered his promise to Ethel, but his lids drooped with
sheer weariness. Perhaps an hour passed in this way, when suddenly his
blood congealed with dread.

He felt the presence of the hand of Reginald
Clarke--unmistakably--groping in his brain as if searching for something
that had still escaped him.