So， with as little reflection as possible， he simply relit thecandle and went up to the next floor. The arm in his trembled，it is true， and his own tread was often uncertain， but they wenton with thoroughness， and after a search revealing nothingthey climbed the last flight of stairs to the top floor of all.
Here they found a perfect nest of small servants’ rooms， withbroken pieces of furniture， dirty cane-bottomed chairs， chestsof drawers， cracked mirrors， and decrepit bedsteads. Therooms had low sloping ceilings already hung here and therewith cobwebs， small windows， and badly plastered walls—adepressing and dismal region which they were glad to leavebehind.
It was on the stroke of midnight when they entered a smallroom on the third floor， close to the top of the stairs， andarranged to make themselves comfortable for the remainder oftheir adventure. It was absolutely bare， and was said to be theroom—then used as a clothes closet—into which the infuriatedgroom had chased his victim and finally caught her. Outside，across the narrow landing， began the stairs leading up to thefloor above， and the servants’ quarters where they had justsearched.
In spite of the chilliness of the night there was somethingin the air of this room that cried for an open window. Butthere was more than this. Shorthouse could only describe it bysaying that he felt less master of himself here than in any otherpart of the house. There was something that acted directly onthe nerves， tiring the resolution， enfeebling the will. He wasconscious of this result before he had been in the room fiveminutes， and it was in the short time they stayed there that hesuffered the wholesale depletion of his vital forces， which was，for himself， the chief horror of the whole experience.
They put the candle on the floor of the cupboard， leaving thedoor a few inches ajar， so that there was no glare to confusethe eyes， and no shadow to shift about on walls and ceiling.
Then they spread the cloak on the floor and sat down to wait，with their backs against the wall.
Shorthouse was within two feet of the door on to the landing；his position commanded a good view of the main staircaseleading down into the darkness， and also of the beginning ofthe servants’ stairs going to the floor above； the heavy stick laybeside him within easy reach.
The moon was now high above the house. Through the openwindow they could see the comforting stars like friendly eyeswatching in the sky. One by one the clocks of the town struckmidnight， and when the sounds died away the deep silence of awindless night fell again over everything. Only the boom of thesea， far away and lugubrious， filled the air with hollow murmurs.
Inside the house the silence became awful； awful， hethought， because any minute now it might be broken bysounds portending terror. The strain of waiting told more andmore severely on the nerves； they talked in whispers whenthey talked at all， for their voices aloud sounded queer andunnatural. A chilliness， not altogether due to the night air，invaded the room， and made them cold. The influences againstthem， whatever these might be， were slowly robbing them ofself-confidence， and the power of decisive action； their forceswere on the wane， and the possibility of real fear took on anew and terrible meaning. He began to tremble for the elderlywoman by his side， whose pluck could hardly save her beyonda certain extent.
He heard the blood singing in his veins. It sometimes seemedso loud that he fancied it prevented his hearing properlycertain other sounds that were beginning very faintly to makethemselves audible in the depths of the house. Every time hefastened his attention on these sounds， they instantly ceased.
They certainly came no nearer. Yet he could not rid himself ofthe idea that movement was going on somewhere in the lowerregions of the house. The drawing-room floor， where the doorshad been so strangely closed， seemed too near； the soundswere further off than that. He thought of the great kitchen， withthe scurrying black-beetles， and of the dismal little scullery；but， somehow or other， they did not seem to come from thereeither. Surely they were not outside the house！
Then， suddenly， the truth flashed into his mind， and for thespace of a minute he felt as if his blood had stopped flowingand turned to ice.
The sounds were not downstairs at all； they were upstairs—upstairs， somewhere among those horrid gloomy little servants’
rooms with their bits of broken furniture， low ceilings， andcramped windows—upstairs where the victim had first beendisturbed and stalked to her death.
And the moment he discovered where the sounds were，he began to hear them more clearly. It was the sound of feet，moving stealthily along the passage overhead， in and outamong the rooms， and past the furniture.
He turned quickly to steal a glance at the motionlessfigure seated beside him， to note whether she had shared hisdiscovery. The faint candle-light coming through the crackin the cupboard door， threw her strongly-marked face intovivid relief against the white of the wall. But it was somethingelse that made him catch his breath and stare again. Anextraordinary something had come into her face and seemed tospread over herfeatures like a mask； it smoothed out the deeplines and drew the skin everywhere a little tighter so that thewrinkles disappeared； it brought into the face—with the soleexception of the old eyes—an appearance of youth and almostof childhood.