"Good-night," he said.

"Good-night," I answered and got afraid.

"Where do you live?" he queried.

I name, from habit, and without thought, my old address, the little attic.


He stood for a while.

"Have I done anything wrong?" I asked anxiously.

"No, not at all!" he replied; "but you had perhaps better be getting home
now; it's cold lying here."

"Ay, that's true; I feel it is a little chilly." I said good-night, and
instinctively took the road to my old abode. If I only set about it
carefully, I might be able to get upstairs without being heard; there were
eight steps in all, and only the two top ones creaked under my tread. Down
at the door I took off my shoes, and ascended. It was quiet everywhere. I
could hear the slow tick-tack of a clock, and a child crying a little.
After that I heard nothing. I found my door, lifted the latch as I was
accustomed to do, entered the room, and shut the door noiselessly after
me.

Everything was as I had left it. The curtains were pulled aside from the
windows, and the bed stood empty. I caught a glimpse of a note lying on
the table; perhaps it was my note to the landlady--she might never have
been up here since I went away.