Stepton
still kept silence. Malling had not approached him. But why should he not
call upon Chichester, an acquaintance, almost a friend? It was true that
he had resolved, having put the affair into Stepton's hands, to wait. It
had come to this, then, to-night that he could be patient no longer? As
he stood at the corner of Hornton Street, he asked himself that question.
He drew out his watch. It was already past eleven, an unholy hour for an
unannounced visit. But slowly he turned into Hornton Street, slowly went
down that quiet thoroughfare till he was opposite to the windows of the
curate's sitting-room. A light shone in one of them. The rest of the
house was dark. Even the fanlight above the small front door displayed no
yellow gleam. No doubt the household had retired to rest and Henry
Chichester was sitting up alone. A rap would probably bring him down to
open to his nocturnal visitor. But now Malling bethought himself
seriously of the lateness of the hour, and paced slowly up and down,
considering whether to seek speech of the curate or to abandon that idea
and return to Cadogan Square. As in his mental debate he paused once more
opposite to the solitary gleam in the first-floor window, an incident
occurred which startled him, and gave a new bent to his thoughts. It was
this: The light in the window was obscured for a moment as if by some
solid body passing before it. Then the window was violently thrown up,
the large figure of a man, only vaguely perceived by Malling, appeared at
it, and a choking sound dropped out into the night. The man seemed to be
leaning out as if in an effort to fill his lungs with air, or to obtain
the relief of the cool night wind for his distracted nerves. His attitude
struck Malling as peculiar and desperate. Suddenly he moved. The light
showed, and Malling saw for an instant a second figure, small, slight,
commanding. The big man seemed to be sucked back toward the center of the
room. Down came the window; the tranquil gleam of the light shone as
before; then abruptly all was dark.

Malling realized at once what was happening in the curate's lodgings. As
he paused, gazing at the dark house, he knew that the miserable Marcus
Harding was within, constrained to endure the observation which, to use
his own hideous but poignant phrase, was "eating him away." It was he who
had appeared at the window, like a tortured being endeavoring to escape
into the freedom of the night. It was Henry Chi