He examined the pile of newspapers. They were all recent and dating from the day after the murder committed in the Cottage on the Fells. _Daily Telegraphs_, _Daily Mails_, _Westminster Gazettes_, every sort and condition of newspaper, and in each of them was a report, more or less full, more or less varying, of the Gyde mystery. He returned them to their corner and resumed his search of the room, examining every hole and cranny, lifting the hearthrug and fender, exploring the contents of the trumpery vases on the chimneypiece and finding nothing of much importance, if we except the sheath of a case knife lying behind one of the vases. He left the room and went upstairs to the bedrooms. They were all empty, clean swept and destitute of anything to hold the eye. The person he was in pursuit of, if he lived in this house, evidently slept upon the old couch in the sitting-room, and did not trouble much about the conveniences of life. Freyberger returned to the sitting-room, sat down in the armchair, just as though he were at home, took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. He was in the tiger’s den. At any moment it was quite within the bounds of possibility that the door might open and the terror, having let himself in by the verandah, enter the room. This was not what made Freyberger feel uneasy, but rather the thought that the unknown might have noticed Hellier following him and taken fright. Freyberger was quite unarmed; yet, had his sinister opponent entered the room at that moment, he would have arrested him just as he had arrested the Fashion Street murderer, and borne him, without doubt, in the same manner, to justice. But though absolutely destitute of fear, he was by no means destitute of caution; and as he sat smoking and waiting, he was revolving in his mind the question of calling in help. That involved leaving the house, and that might involve total failure. At any moment the quarry might return. He decided to wait. The door of the room and the door leading to the verandah were open, so that he could easily hear the approach of anyone from the back premises and quite as easily the approach of anyone from the hall door. It was after half-past two now. The house was deathly still; there was not even the ticking of a clock, the whisper of a breath of wind from the garden outside or the movement of a mouse behind the wainscotings to break the silence. Occasionally the rumble of a passing vehicle came from the road, nothing more. It was after three when the watcher suddenly started, sat straight up in the armchair and listened intently. The front garden gate had been opened and shut with a clang, a step sounded on the gravel and a loud double rap at the hall door brought Freyberger to his feet. He sprang from the room, came down the passage, undid the chain and bolts of the hall door, unlatched it, flung it open and found on the steps a telegraph boy. “Gyde?” said the boy, holding out a telegram.