He was acquainted with the plot of this drawing-room in a
general way but by no means with such accuracy as was needed to serve
him now.
So he waited, straining to cheat that opaque pall of night of one
little hint as to his whereabouts who had removed the light.
Resurrecting another old trick, he measured time by pulse-beats, and
stood unstirring and all but breathless for three full minutes. But
perceptions stimulated to extra sensibility by apprehension of danger
detected nothing. And his hearing was so keen, he told himself, no
breath could have been drawn in that time without his having knowledge
of it. Still, he knew he was not alone. Somewhere in that encompassing
murk an alien and inimical intelligence skulked.
Baffled by powers of patience and immobility that mocked his own, he
moved again, edging toward the entrance-hall, a progress so gradual he
could have sworn it must be imperceptible. Yet he had a feeling, a
suspicion, perhaps merely a fear, that he did not stir a finger without
the other's knowledge.
A hand extended about a foot encountered the back of an upholstered
chair, which he identified by touch.
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