ind. But the light was so poor, and the panes were so
dirty, on both sides, that had there been anything to see he could have
been very little the wiser. As it was, the small area of the room into
which he could dimly peer seemed to be carpetless and unfurnished. There
was no movement, no sound. The light itself apparently came from the
further end of the room, from the level of a table. He clung on,
undecided how to proceed. It appeared that the only thing to do was to
wait and listen for some indication of the purpose of the dismal
illumination.

He looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty. After a wait of what seemed
at least half an hour, he looked again. Ten minutes only had passed. No
discernible movement had taken place in the room. Yet he felt perfectly,
and very unpleasantly, certain that it was occupied--that something was
proceeding within it which, had the blind not intervened, would have
revealed the secret of the house. Of what it might be he could form no
idea--but, for the first time in his life, he was experiencing, in his
mental tenseness and the sinister silence of the surroundings, that
sensation which attests a proximity to evil. He was daunted. Fear was a
condition to which he was a stranger, but a vivid nervousness was
beginning to seize upon him. A sense of personal danger, an element
which, so far, he had scarcely considered, was attacking him, and
gaining ground. The perspiration was standing out on his face. He found
that his hands were cold and wet. The pulses of his body were throbbing;
he felt his strength growing less. Muttering a curse, he braced himself
with a strong effort. He was accustomed to consider his nerves
impregnable. Many times in his life he had known himself to be in far
greater danger than he could attribute to the present situation, and
such weakness had never assailed him. On four occasions he had been
aware that his life was hanging by a thread, and had gloried in his own
coolness. And now ... without a doubt the Crooked House was evil.

Still he waited. Another twenty minutes slowly passed.

He started. His hands closed tightly on the trunk of the ivy to which he
was clinging. The door of the room had been closed with a slam. He could
hear heavy footsteps on the uncarpeted floor. A shadow blotted out the
light.

A moment later, a voice--a man's voice, horribly strained and
unnatural--rose in a shout of fury.

"Damn you!" it screamed. "Look at your work! Look at it ag