It was unchanged. Across the way a door flung open, a child darted out
with shrill laughter and dodged about the corner of the house, escaping
after some mischief.

After that the silence again, except that before long a murmur began on
the veranda beneath him where the half-dozen obscure figures had been
sitting when he entered. Why should they be mumbling to themselves? He
thought he could distinguish the voice of the widow Rickson among the
rest, but he shrugged that idle thought away and turned back into his
room. He sat down on the side of the bed and pulled off his boots, but
the minute they were off he was ill at ease. There was something
oppressive about the atmosphere of this rickety old hotel. What sort of a
world was this he had entered, with its whispers, its cold glances?

He cast himself back on his bed, determined to be at ease. Nevertheless,
his heart kept bumping absurdly. Now, Terry began to grow angry. With the
feeling that there was danger in the air of Craterville--for him--there
came a nervous setting of the muscles, a desire to close on someone and
throttle the secret of this hostility. At this point he heard a light
tapping at the door. Terry sat bolt upright on the bed.

There are all kinds of taps. There are bold, heavy blows on the door that
mean danger without; there are careless, conversational rappings; but
this was a furtive tap, repeated after a pause as though it contained a
code message.

First there was a leap of fear--then cold quiet of the nerves. He was
surprised at himself. He found himself stepping into whatever adventure
lay toward him with the lifting of the spirits. It was a stimulus.