behind him .... Good Lord, suppose Cayley really was a murderer!
Why, even now he might be--no, he mustn't think of that. If he
thought of that, he would have to turn round. He mustn't turn
round. He was asleep; just peacefully asleep. But why didn't
the door shut? Where was Cayley now? Just behind him? And in
his hand no, he mustn't think of that. He was asleep. But why
didn't the door shut?

The door was shutting. There was a sigh from the sleeper in the
bed, a sigh of relief which escaped him involuntarily. But it
had a very natural sound a deep breath from a heavy sleeper. He
added another one to it to make it seem more natural. The door
was shut.

Bill counted a hundred slowly and then got up. As quickly and as
noiselessly as possible he dressed himself in the dark. He put
the dummy figure in the bed, arranged the clothes so that just
enough but not too much of it was showing, and stood by the door
looking at it. For a casual glance the room was just about light
enough. Then very quietly, very slowly he opened the door. All
was still. There was no light from beneath the door of Cayley's
room. Very quietly, very carefully he crept along the passage to
Antony's room. He opened the door and went in.

Antony was still in bed. Bill walked across to wake him up, and
then stopped rigid, and his heart thumped against his ribs.
There was somebody else in the room.

"All right, Bill," said a whispering voice, and Antony stepped
out from the curtains.