By Sunday evening, a week after the wreck, my inaction had goaded me to frenzy. The very sight of Johnson across the street or lurking, always within sight of the house, kept me constantly exasperated. It was on that day that things began to come to a focus, a burning-glass of events that seemed to center on me.

I dined alone that evening in no cheerful frame of mind. There had been a polo game the day before and I had lent a pony, which is always a bad thing to do. And she had wrenched her shoulder, besides helping to lose the game. There was no one in town: the temperature was ninety and climbing, and my left hand persistently cramped under its bandage.

Mrs. Klopton herself saw me served, my bread buttered and cut in tidbits, my meat ready for my fork. She hovered around me maternally, obviously trying to cheer me.

“The paper says still warmer,” she ventured. “The thermometer is ninety-two now.”

“And this coffee is two hundred and fifty,” I said, putting down my cup. “Where is Euphemia? I haven't seen her around, or heard a dish smash all day.”

“Euphemia is in bed,” Mrs. Klopton said gravely. “Is your meat cut small enough, Mr. Lawrence?” Mrs. Klopton can throw more mystery into an ordinary sentence than any one I know. She can say, “Are your sheets damp, sir?” And I can tell from her tone that the house across the street has been robbed, or that my left hand neighbor has appendicitis. So now I looked up and asked the question she was waiting for.

“What's the matter with Euphemia?” I inquired idly.

“Frightened into her bed,” Mrs. Klopton said in a stage whisper. “She's had three hot water bottles and she hasn't done a thing all day but moan.”

“She oughtn't to take hot water bottles,” I said in my severest tone. “One would make me moan. You need not wait, I'll ring if I need anything.”

Mrs. Klopton sailed to the door, where she stopped and wheeled indignantly. “I only hope you won't laugh on the wrong side of your face some morning, Mr. Lawrence,” she declared, with Christian fortitude. “But I warn you, I am going to have the police watch that house next door.”

I was half inclined to tell her that both it and we were under police surveillance at that moment. But I like Mrs. Klopton, in spite of the fact that I make her life a torment for her, so I refrained.

“Last night, when the paper said it was going to storm, I sent Euphemia to the roof to bring the rugs in. Eliza had slipped out, although it was her evening in. Euphemia went up to the roof—it was eleven o'clock—and soon I heard her running down-stairs crying. When she got to my room she just folded up on the floor. She said there was a black figure sitting on the parapet of the house next door—the empty house—and that when she appeared it rose and waved long black arms at her and spit like a cat.”

I had finished my dinner and was lighting a cigarette. “If there was any one up there, which I doubt, they probably sneezed,” I suggested. “But if you feel uneasy, I'll take a look around the roof to-night before I turn in. As far as Euphemia goes, I wouldn't be uneasy about her—doesn't she always have an attack of some sort when Eliza rings in an extra evening on her?”

So I made a superficial examination of the window locks that night, visiting parts of the house that I had not seen since I bought it. Then I went to the roof. Evidently it had not been intended for any purpose save to cover the house, for unlike the houses around, there was no staircase. A ladder and a trap-door led to it, and it required some nice balancing on my part to get up with my useless arm. I made it, however, and found this unexplored part of my domain rather attractive. It was cooler than down-stairs, and I sat on the brick parapet and smoked my final cigarette. The roof of the empty house adjoined mine along the back wing, but investigation showed that the trap-door across the low dividing wall was bolted underneath.

There was nothing out of the ordinary anywhere, and so I assured Mrs. Klopton. Needless to say, I did not tell her that I had left the trap-door open, to see if it would improve the temperature of the house. I went to bed at midnight, merely because there was nothing else to do. I turned on the night lamp at the head of my bed, and picked up a volume of Shaw at random (it was Arms and the Man, and I remember thinking grimly that I was a good bit of a chocolate cream soldier myself), and prepared to go to sleep. Shaw always puts me to sleep. I have no apologies to make for what occurred that night, and not even an explanation that I am sure of. I did a foolish thing under impulse, and I have not been sorry.

It was something after two when the door-bell rang. It rang quickly, twice. I got up drowsily, for the maids and Mrs. Klopton always lock themselves beyond reach of the bell at night, and put on a dressing-gown. The bell rang again on my way down-stairs. I lit the hall light and opened the door. I was wide-awake now, and I saw that it was Johnson. His bald head shone in the light—his crooked mouth was twisted in a smile.

“Good Heavens, man,” I said irritably. “Don't you ever go home and go to bed?”

He closed the vestibule door behind him and cavalierly turned out the light. Our dialogue was sharp, staccato.

“Have you a key to the empty house next door?” he demanded. “Somebody's in there, and the latch is caught.”

“The houses are alike. The key to this door may fit. Did you see them go in?”

“No. There's a light moving up from room to room. I saw something like it last night, and I have been watching. The patrolman reported queer doings there a week or so ago.”

“A light!” I exclaimed. “Do you mean that you—”

“Very likely,” he said grimly. “Have you a revolver?”

“All kinds in the gun rack,” I replied, and going into the den, I came back with a Smith and Wesson. “I'm not much use,” I explained, “with this arm, but I'll do what I can. There may be somebody there. The servants here have been uneasy.”

Johnson planned the campaign. He suggested on account of my familiarity with the roof, that I go there and cut off escape in that direction. “I have Robison out there now—the patrolman on the beat,” he said. “He'll watch below and you above, while I search the house. Be as quiet as possible.”

I was rather amused. I put on some clothes and felt my way carefully up the stairs, the revolver swinging free in my pocket, my hand on the rail. At the foot of the ladder I stopped and looked up. Above me there was a gray rectangle of sky dotted with stars. It occurred to me that with my one serviceable hand holding the ladder, I was hardly in a position to defend myself, that I was about to hoist a body that I am rather careful of into a danger I couldn't see and wasn't particularly keen about anyhow. I don't mind saying that the seconds it took me to scramble up the ladder were among the most unpleasant that I recall.

I got to the top, however, without incident. I could see fairly well after the darkness of the house beneath, but there was nothing suspicious in sight. The roofs, separated by two feet of brick wall, stretched around me, unbroken save by an occasional chimney. I went very softly over to the other trap, the one belonging to the suspected house. It was closed, but I imagined I could hear Johnson's footsteps ascending heavily. Then even that was gone. A near-by clock struck three as I stood waiting. I examined my revolver then, for the first time, and found it was empty!

I had been rather skeptical until now. I had had the usual tolerant attitude of the man who is summoned from his bed to search for burglars, combined with the artificial courage of firearms. With the discovery of my empty gun, I felt like a man on the top of a volcano in lively eruption. Suddenly I found myself staring incredulously at the trap-door at my feet. I had examined it early in the evening and found it bolted. Did I imagine it, or had it raised about an inch? Wasn't it moving slowly as I looked? No, I am not a hero: I was startled almost into a panic. I had one arm, and whoever was raising that trap-door had two. My knees had a queer inclination to bend the wrong way.

Johnson's footsteps were distinct enough, but he was evidently far below. The trap, raised perhaps two inches now, remained stationary. There was no sound from beneath it: once I thought I heard two or three gasping respirations: I am not sure they were not my own. I wanted desperately to stand on one leg at a time and hold the other up out of focus of a possible revolver.

I did not see the hand appear. There was nothing there, and then it was there, clutching the frame of the trap. I did the only thing I could think of; I put my foot on it!

There was not a sound from beneath. The next moment I was kneeling and had clutched the wrist just above the hand. After a second's struggle, the arm was still. With something real to face, I was myself again.

“Don't move, or I'll stand on the trap and break your arm,” I panted. What else could I threaten? I couldn't shoot, I couldn't even fight. “Johnson!” I called.

And then I realized the thing that stayed with me for a month, the thing I can not think of even now without a shudder. The hand lay ice cold, strangely quiescent. Under my fingers, an artery was beating feebly. The wrist was as slender as—I held the hand to the light. Then I let it drop.

“Good Lord,” I muttered, and remained on my knees, staring at the spot where the hand had been. It was gone now: there was a faint rustle in the darkness below, and then silence.

I held up my own hand in the starlight and stared at a long scratch in the palm. “A woman!” I said to myself stupidly. “By all that's ridiculous, a woman!”

Johnson was striking matches below and swearing softly to himself. “How the devil do you get to the roof?” he called. “I think I've broken my nose.”

He found the ladder after a short search and stood at the bottom, looking up at me. “Well, I suppose you haven't seen him?” he inquired. “There are enough darned cubbyholes in this house to hide a patrol wagon load of thieves.” He lighted a fresh match. “Hello, here's another door!”

By the sound of his diminishing footsteps I supposed it was a rear staircase. He came up again in ten minutes or so, this time with the policeman.

“He's gone, all right,” he said ruefully. “If you'd been attending to your business, Robison, you'd have watched the back door.”

“I'm not twins.” Robison was surly.

“Well,” I broke in, as cheerfully as I could, “if you are through with this jolly little affair, and can get down my ladder without having my housekeeper ring the burglar alarm, I have some good Monongahela whisky—eh?”

They came without a second invitation across the roof, and with them safely away from the house I breathed more freely. Down in the den I fulfilled my promise, which Johnson drank to the toast, “Coming through the rye.” He examined my gun rack with the eye of a connoisseur, and even when he was about to go he cast a loving eye back at the weapons.

“Ever been in the army?” he inquired.

“No,” I said with a bitterness that he noticed but failed to comprehend. “I'm a chocolate cream soldier—you don't read Shaw, I suppose, Johnson?”

“Never heard of him,” the detective said indifferently. “Well, good night, Mr. Blakeley. Much obliged.” At the door he hesitated and coughed.

“I suppose you understand, Mr. Blakeley,” he said awkwardly, “that this—er—surveillance is all in the day's work. I don't like it, but it's duty. Every man to his duty, sir.”

“Sometime when you are in an open mood, Johnson,” I returned, “you can explain why I am being watched at all.”