He
was surprised when a little clock tinkled the hour of eleven. He had not
seen the clock before. Now he listened to the faint monotonous ticking
it made close to his head until he felt an impelling drowsiness creeping
over him and he closed his eyes. He was almost asleep when it struck
again--softly, and yet with sufficient loudness to arouse him. It had
struck twelve.
With an effort Howland overcame his drowsiness and dragged himself to a
sitting posture, knowing that he should undress and go to bed. The lamp
was still burning brightly and he arose to turn down the wick. Suddenly
he stopped. To his dulled senses there came distinctly the sound of a
knock at the door. For a few moments he waited, silent and motionless.
It came again, louder than before, and yet in it there was something of
caution. It was not the heavy tattoo of one who had come to awaken him
on a matter of business.
Who could be his midnight visitor? Softly Howland went back to his heavy
coat and slipped his small revolver into his hip pocket. The knock came
again. Then he walked to the door, shot back the bolt, and, with his
right hand gripping the butt of his pistol, flung it wide open.
For a moment he stood transfixed, staring speechlessly at a white,
startled face lighted up by the glow of the oil lamp.
Pages:
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75