probably the kitchen roof, was below. Kneeling upon this the assassin
could easily fire into the room. Beyond, the pale moonshine revealed a
patch of grass, a weed-entangled garden, and behind these a dense
forest growth. To the right of the garden I could dimly distinguish a
row of small cabins, the negro quarters. Coombs would be occupying one
of these, and they were so close that, even if asleep at the time, he
could scarcely fail to hear the report of the gun in the silent night.
Yet there was no light along the row of huts, no sign of human presence.

All this was but a rapid survey, for I dare not remain there, my back
to that black interior. The body of the dead man huddled on the floor,
the unknown mystery of the dark house, filled me with an awful dread.
Seized by sudden terror I caught up the extinguished lamp, scarcely
breathing until again outside in the hallway, the door closed behind
me. Trembling in every limb I felt my way along through the darkness,
guiding myself by the wall. What could I do? What ought I to do? I
knew nothing of the house, or where to find the woman; I was not even
sure of her presence. Indeed, the very memory of her snaky eyes gave
me new horror. And Coombs! Suspecting him, as I did, it would be the
height of folly to seek him out yonder in the dark. There was nothing
left but to await daylight; to remain on watch, endeavoring alone to
formulate some plan of future action.

Accustomed as I was to danger, the situation set my pulses
throbbing--the intense blackness, the silence, the memory of that dead
face, utterly unnerving me. I imagined things--a presence in that
deserted hall through which I groped. Some unknown horror close at
hand, even a spectral passing down the stairs. I listened, clinging to
the banister-rail, feeling again helplessly for matches. Perhaps the
faint scuffling was some scurrying rat, or some puff of wind in a