himself with a glass of water, then he returned to the living room
and sat down in an arm chair by the window. He wanted time to think.

How had the man vanished so utterly, leaving no trace behind in the
apartment? The window in Rochester's room was locked on the inside;
in fact, all the apartment windows were securely fastened, he had
found on his tour of inspection; the only one not locked was the
oval, swinging window high up in the side wall of the bathroom;
only a child could squeeze through it, Kent decided. The window
looked into a well formed by the wings of the apartment house, and
had a sheer drop of fifty feet to the ground below.

But for his unfortunate luck in backing the man against the bedroom
door instead of the wall he would not have escaped, but how had the
man realized so instantly that he was against a door in the pitch
darkness? It certainly showed familiarity with his surroundings.
Kent sat upright as an idea flashed through his brain - was the man
Philip Rochester?

Kent scouted the idea but it persisted. Suppose it had been Philip
Rochester awakened from a drunken slumber by his entrance in the dark;
if so, nothing more likely than that he had mistaken him, Kent, for
a burglar and sprung at him. But why had he disappeared without
revealing his identity to Kent? Surely the same reason worked both
ways - the man who had wrestled with him was as unaware of Kent's
identity as Kent was of his - they had fought in the dark and in
silence.

Kent laughed aloud. The situation had its amusing side; then, as
recollection came of the scene in the bank that morning, his mirth