He went to the foot of the bed and peered to the other side—and saw nothing.

Had that scream been a freakish trick of wind ?

He knew it hadn’t; he also knew that it might have been uttered to bring him here. Whoever had lit that lamp must still be near——

Hold it!

While he had been rushing towards the window and breaking in there had been time for man or woman to run down the stairs and leave the house by the back door. He couldn’t take anything for granted. He went into the room, picked up the lamp, which gave off a grey smoke and an oily smell, and placed it on a chest on the landing so that it gave more general light. Then he approached the first of the two closed doors. He took out his handkerchief and wrapped it round the handle before turning it. The door opened without difficulty, on to another, smaller bedroom, as empty as the first.

And silence——

It was broken suddenly, eerily, by a sound he placed at once, but didn’t want to hear; by moaning.

The, crying wasn’t loud, but sounded clearly because of the general quiet. Undoubtedly it came from behind that closed door. It wasn’t easy to tell the difference between a man moaning and a woman; but he thought this was a woman, and saw a picture of Janet in his mind’s eye.

Roger moved slowly to the door, repeated the trick with the handkerchief, and pushed—but the door was locked. The moaning was continual now, low, frightening, working on his nerves. It was a stout door, and there was no key in the lock. He put his shoulder against it and pushed, a practised trick which would open a flimsy door in a modern house, but it had no effect on this one. He drew back and flung himself at the unyielding wood; all he did was to hurt himself.