But nothing happened, and he
saw at once that the room was entirely empty. Walking over with the
pistol cocked he peered out into the darkness of the landing and then
closed the door and turned the key. Then he searched the room--bed,
cupboard, table, curtains, everything that could have concealed a man;
but found no trace of the intruder. The owner of the footsteps had
disappeared like a ghost into the shadows of the night. But for one fact
he might have imagined that he had been dreaming: _the bag had
vanished_!
There was no more sleep for Shorthouse that night. His watch pointed to
4 a.m. and there were still three hours before daylight. He sat down at
the table and continued his sketches. With fixed determination he went
on with his drawing and began a new outline of the man's head. There was
something in the expression that continually evaded him. He had no
success with it, and this time it seemed to him that it was the eyes
that brought about his discomfiture. He held up his pencil before his
face to measure the distance between the nose and the eyes, and to his
amazement he saw that a change had come over the features.
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