And
the voice was now in his room!
Was it Bateese, inspired by some sort of malformed humor? Carrigan
listened. Another minute passed. He reached out a hand and groped
about him, very careful not to make a sound, urged by the feeling
that some one was almost within reach of him. He flung back his
blanket and stood out in the middle of the floor.
Still he heard no movement, no soft footfalls of retreat or
advance. He lighted a match and held it high above his head. In
its yellow illumination he could see nothing alive. He lighted a
lamp. The cabin was empty. He drew a deep breath and went to the
window. It was still open. The voice had undoubtedly come to him
through that window, and he fancied he could see where the screen
netting was crushed a bit inward, as though a face had pressed
heavily against it. Outside the night was beautifully calm. The
sky, washed by storm, was bright with stars. But there was not a
ripple of movement that he could hear.
After that he looked at his watch. He must have been sleeping for
some time when the voice roused him, for it was nearly three
o'clock. In spite of the stars, dawn was close at hand.
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