From time to time he turned to the windows behind him, but the
vision of the face was not repeated. More than once, too, he went
to the door and listened, but the silence was so profound in the
house that he gradually came to believe the plan of attack had been
abandoned. Once he went out on to the balcony, but the sleet stung
his face and he only had time to see that the shutters above were
closed, when he was obliged to seek the shelter of the room
again.
In this way the hours passed. The fire died down and the room
grew chilly. Shorthouse had made several sketches of the two heads
and was beginning to feel overpoweringly weary. His feet and his
hands were cold and his yawns were prodigious. It seemed ages and
ages since the steps had come to listen at his door and the face
