And it was so quiet you could hear
your heart beat, and your breathing seemed to rattle in your ears.
We strained our eyes, seeking to pierce the gloom, stealing forward
step by step. A board creaked, noisily; and then--I could have sworn
it--then something seemed to move across one of the dormer windows.
It was so vague, so shadowy, that one could not distinguish its
outline; one could only think that something moved.
The Author gave an exclamation and switched on his electric torch,
trying to focus the circle of light upon that particular window.
There was nothing there. Only, it seemed to me that something,
incredibly swift and silent, flashed down one of the bewildering
turns to which our attic is addicted. But when we ran forward, the
passage was empty. We brought up at the red brick square of one of
the chimney stacks.
Almost savagely The Author flashed his light over every inch of wall
and floor. Nothing. But on the close and musty air stole, not a
sound, but a scent.
The Author swung around and trotted back. The window across which we
thought we had seen something move was fastened from the inside, and
there were one or two wooden boxes and a leather-covered trunk in
the dormer recess.
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