There was the door with footprints leading to and from it, and that seemed the most promising. There were also footprints outside the swing door nearest to him, but they were less encouraging, for at that point there was only a double set, whereas the other seemed to have been fairly popular. And the Saint’s philosophy laid down the law that if you must stroll into the home-sweet-home of a bunch of cut-throats you might as well do the thing in style. Wherefore the Saint went down the passage and halted by the most dangerous-looking door. There was a handle on that door. He turned it and opened a couple of inches. Then, keeping well away, he set his toe against the wood, braced himself, and kicked. The door opened wide, but there was no muffled report. That short history at least wasn’t going to repeat itself. And, accordingly, the only thing to do was to march straight in. Simon went—in a catlike spring that carried him round the corner and set his back against the wall again in a flash. But once more there was no response. Simon had jerked the door shut behind him as before, and one foot was against it so that nobody could open it and sneak out without his knowing it. But only stillness answered his listening, and the room was so dark that he could see nothing. He cursed himself for not having an electric torch. But it was far too late to remedy that, and therefore his only hope was to strike a match—and hope that his concerted speed of eye and brain and hand would be great enough to overcome the handicap he would have to create for himself. If there was anyone in the room, he would be able to see the Saint before the Saint saw him. But the Saint had taken longer chances than that, and his nerves were getting just a shade raw. Simon Templar was afraid of nothing that he could see and hit back at, but this creeping around, seeing no sign of the enemy and yet continually threatened by him, was turning into a joke that the Saint didn’t feel inclined to laugh at. Still gripping Anna, he fished a box of matches out of his pocket and struck one quickly, holding it behind his head so that the flare of it would not dazzle him. And the room was perfectly empty. The match burned down between his fingers and went out. He struck another, but even that could not cause a human being to materialise. Yet there had been men there—their footprints were all over the floor, and there were three comparatively new-looking beer bottles in one corner, and scraps of greasy paper were littered about. “This is getting annoying,” said the Saint. He struck a third match, and took a couple of steps into the room. Then he tried to hurl himself back, but he was a fraction of a second late. The ground dropped away beneath his feet and he felt himself falling down and down into utter darkness. Chapter XI Carn Listens In