Slowly he began to ascend, a hand following the balusters, the other with
his cane exploring the obscurity before him. On the steps, a carpet, thick
and heavy, muffled his footfalls. He moved noiselessly. Towards the top
the staircase curved, and presently a foot that groped for a higher level
failed to find it. Again he halted, acutely distrustful.

Nothing happened.

He went on, guided by the balustrade, passing three doors, all open,
through which the undefined proportions of a drawing-room and boudoir were
barely suggested in a ghostly dusk. By each he paused, listening, hearing
nothing.

His foot struck with a deadened thud against the bottom step of the
second flight, and his pulses fluttered wildly for a moment. Two
minutes--three--he waited in suspense. From above came no sound. He went
on, as before, save that twice a step yielded, complaining, to his weight.
Toward the top the close air, like the darkness, seemed to weigh more
heavily upon his consciousness; little drops of perspiration started out on
his forehead, his scalp tingled, his mouth was hot and dry, he felt as if
stifled.

Again the raised foot found no level higher than its fellows. He stopped
and held his breath, oppressed by a conviction that some one was near him.
Confirmation of this came startlingly--an eerie whisper in the night, so
close to him that he fancied he could feel the disturbed air fanning his
face.

"_Is it you, Eccles_?"