the kitchen and gave him cold ham and coffee and vast slices of bread and
butter.

She did not talk much while he ate, and he noted that she asked no
questions. Afterwards she led him through the silence of the place up to
the second story and gave him a room at the corner of the building. He
thanked her. She paused at the door with her hand on the knob, and her
eyes fixed him through and through with a glittering, hostile stare. A
wisp of gray hair had fallen across her cheek, and there it was plastered
to the skin with sweat, for the evening was, warm.

"No trouble," she muttered at length. "None at all. Make yourself to
home, Mr.--Hollis!"



CHAPTER 18


When the door closed on her, Terry remained standing in the middle of the
room watching the flame in the oil lamp she had lighted flare and rise at
the corner, and then steady down to an even line of yellow; but he was
not seeing it; he was listening to that peculiar silence in the house. It
seemed to have spread over the entire village, and he heard no more of
those casual noises which he had noticed on his coming.

He went to the window and raised it to let whatever wind was abroad enter
the musty warmth of the room. He raised the sash with stealthy caution,
wondering at his own stealthiness. And he was oddly glad when the window
rose without a squeak. He leaned out and looked up and down the street.