waste of time. He swung from the stirrups and went lightly up the front
steps. His footfall was a feathery thing that carried him like a shadow
to the door. It yielded at once under his hand, and, stepping through,
he found himself lost in utter blackness.

He closed the door, taking care that the spring did not make the lock
click, and then stood perfectly motionless, listening, probing the dark.

After a time the shadows gave way before his eyes, and he could make out
that he was in a hall with lofty ceiling. Something wound down from
above at a little distance, and he made out that this was the stairway.
Obviously the bedrooms would be in the second story.

Andy began the ascent.

He had occasion to bless the thick carpet before he was at the head of
the stairs; he could have run up if he had wished, and never have made a
sound. At the edge of the second hall he paused again. The sense of
people surrounded him. Then directly behind him a man cleared his
throat. As though a great hand had seized his shoulder and wrenched him
down, Andy whirled and dropped to his knees, the revolver in his hand
pointing uneasily here and there like the head of a snake laboring to
find its enemy.

But there was nothing in the hall. The voice became a murmur, and then
Andy knew that it had been some man speaking in his sleep.

At least that room was not the room of the girl. Or was she, perhaps,
married? Weak and sick, Andy rested his hand against the wall and waited
for his brain to clear. "She won't be married," he whispered to himself