He moved like a cat, absolutely without sound, fleet, sure. His
fingers found the coverlet and he tore it down, tumbling the clothes and
pushing down the pillow so that it looked as if he himself lay there,
peacefully sleeping beneath the sheltering blankets.... Then, still
noiseless, panther-like, he slid his lithe figure under the bed.... Then
the noise came again. Just the whisper of footsteps in the wide hall, and
then--his door opened soundlessly and for a moment the footsteps stopped.
He could feel a presence in the room. If it were Dollops the lad would
give some sign. If not--He lay still, scarcely breathing in the
enveloping darkness. The footsteps came again, softly, softly padding
across the room toward him. He saw the black shadows of stockinged feet
as they crossed the path of moonlight, and sucked in his breath. Man's
feet!... Whose?... Then something shook the bedstead with tremendous
force, but without sound. It was as if some object had been hurled
forcibly into its softness. The footsteps turned again, hurriedly this
time, and there was a sound of a deep-drawn breath--a breath full of
pent-up, passionate hatred.
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