Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/228

 of himself—but would he be given that moment? Val doubted it, and he gave himself over to the task of attempting to loosen his bonds.

He was satisfied now that he had indeed been watched as he peered into Jessica’s little house from the road. Of course he would have been watched. It was foolish to think that Teck would not have thought of that. A twinge went through his head, and he cursed Teck again, and promised himself an ample vengeance.

He could make no headway with the bonds. It was a clean, workmanlike job, and there was little chance of his being able to release himself. He would need some assistance. At his side the candle guttered and sputtered in its grease, and Val had that uneasy sense of another presence in the house with him. He could hardly define the feeling, but he felt certain there was someone there; he did now know how he knew, but he did not doubt the fact.

Was Teck, or his assistant, still in the house? That might be, though Val had not heard them. If not they, who could it be? Not Jessica, certainly. In this rain, and alone at this hour. Not, not Jessica.

Was it something human, then? After all, nobody had ever been able to prove that all supernatural visitations were false—actually did not exist. And this old house—there was something about it that savored of the other world, of the world beyond the grave. Its gaunt rooms and its isolated position, its resounding walls and floors, and its yawning, empty windows.

He could scarcely throw the feeling off, though he detested himself for it. Lower and lower the candle sputtered next to him. Higher and higher came the rumble of the storm. On the pine table, next to his