he distant rumble of a cart. The pile towered above me
like a mausoleum, and I reflected that it must take some nerve to
burgle an empty house. It would be good enough fun to break into a
bustling dwelling and pinch the plate when the folk were at dinner, but
to burgle emptiness and silence meant a fight with the terrors in a
man's soul. It was worse in my case, for I wasn't cheered with
prospects of loot. I wanted to get inside chiefly to soothe my
conscience.

I hadn't much doubt I would find a way, for three years of war and the
frequent presence of untidy headquarters' staffs have loosened the
joints of most Picardy houses. There's generally a window that doesn't
latch or a door that doesn't bar. But I tried window after window on
the terrace without result. The heavy green sun-shutters were down over
each, and when I broke the hinges of one there was a long bar within to
hold it firm. I was beginning to think of shinning up a rain-pipe and
trying the second floor, when a shutter I had laid hold on swung back
in my hand. It had been left unfastened, and, kicking the snow from my
boots, I entered a room.

A gleam of moonlight followed me and I saw I was in a big salon with a
polished wood floor and dark lumps of furniture swathed in sheets. I
clicked the bulb at my belt, and the little circle of light showed a
place which had not been dwelt in for years. At the far end was another
door, and as I tiptoed towards it something caught my eye on the
parquet. It was a piece of fresh snow like that which clumps on the
heel of a boot. I had not brought it there. Some other visitor had
passed this way, and not long before me.

Very gently I opened the door and slipped in. In front of me was a pile
of furniture which made a kind of screen, and behind that I halted and
listened. There was somebody in the room. I heard the sound of human
breathing and soft movements; the man, whoever he was, was at the far
end from me, and though there was a dim glow of Moon through a broken
shutter I could see nothing of what he was after. I was beginning to
enjoy myself now. I knew of his presence and he did not know of mine,
and that is the sport of stalking.

An unwary movement of my hand caused the screen to creak. Instantly the
movements ceased and there was utter silence. I held my breath, and
after a second or two the tiny sounds began again. I had a feeling,
though my eyes could not assure me, that the man before me was at work,
an