must be half past twelve, that for
close upon half an hour he had waited here. Half an hour filled with
quick, conflicting thoughts, suggesting a dozen explanations. Was the
note really from Miss Waverly? Had she acted in good faith in sending
it? What was the danger of which she spoke? Why had she not come, and
why had she set an hour like this? Was it a mere hoax?

"If I could only have a smoke," he muttered, "it wouldn't be so bad
waiting to see what the play is."

But still he waited, determined not to leave until possessed of the
certainty of there being no need of staying longer. Cautiously he
approached the house until he could have put out his foot to the first
of the steps leading up to the little porch. There he stopped, telling
himself that doubtless he was just playing Tom-fool here in his enemy's
garden. Less and less did he like the idea of prowling about the place
of Henry Pollard at this time of night.

But now at last there was a sound to vibrate against the empty silence
in his ears, a little sound which at first he could not analyse and
could not locate. He could hardly be sure whether his senses had tricked
him or if he actually heard it. It seemed rather that he had _felt_ it.
His body grew very tense as he tried to know where it was, what it was.
But again the silence was heavier and more oppressive than before.

At last, through the void of the absolute stillness, it came again. Now
he knew what it was although not even yet could he be certain whence it
came. It was a cautious step ... it might have been a man's step or a
woman's. No muscle of his rigid body moved save alone the muscles which
turned his eyes to right and left.

At first he thought that there was some one moving toward him from
behind, some one who had perhaps just come in through the gate or had
been hidden in the straggling shrubbery. And the next instant he knew
that the sounds were in front of him, that what he heard was some one
walking in the house, tiptoeing cautiously, and yet not silently because
the old boards of the floor whined and creaked under the slow tread. Had
the night been less still, had his ears been less ready for any sound
the faint creak-creak would not have reached him.

"Woman or man?" was his problem. "Winifred Waverly or Henry Pollard?"

There came a second sound and this he recognized; the scraping of dry
wood against dry wood, the moving of the bars which the countryside knew
that Henry Pollard