From room to room he passed, leisurely,
always on the alert, always listening. Once, as he opened a door
on the third floor there was a soft scurrying as though of a
skirt across the floor. He struck a match quickly, to find a
great rat sitting up and looking at him with black, beady eyes.
It was the only sign of life he found in the whole building.
When he had finished his search, he came down to the ground floor
and entered the room corresponding with the one from which he had
heard voices in the adjoining house. He crouched here upon the
dusty boards for some time, listening. Now and then he fancied
that he could still hear voices on the other side of the wall,
but he was never absolutely certain.
At last he rose to stretch himself, and almost as he did so a
fresh sound from outside attracted his notice. A motor-car had
turned into the Terrace. He walked to the uncurtained window and
stood there, sure of being himself unseen. Then his heart gave a
great leap. Unemotional though he was, this was a happening
which might well have excited a more phlegmatic individual. A
motor-car which he remembered very well, although it was driven
now by a man in dark livery, had stopped at the next house. A
woman and two men had descended. Tavernake never glanced at the
latter; his eyes were fastened upon their companion. She was
wrapped in a long cloak, but she lifted her skirts as she crossed
the pavement, and he saw the flash of her silver buckles.
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