Half an hour passed, and Tom and Dorothy were back with porters carrying a table, chairs and coal. In ten minutes after their arrival, there was a brisk fire in the grate, we were comfortably disposed about it, and the porters had departed. Dorothy sat gazing into the fire with that same dreamy quiet which had so characterized her appearance for the last few days. I sat watching Dorothy, and Tom was busy lighting his pipe. Suddenly I heard a slight and repeated noise. With a sign to Tom, I rose and tiptoed to the door. There was no one coming up. I went to the landing and listened. No more result. Yet I had surely heard footsteps. I went back into the room and closed the door. Tom was beside me in a moment, pipe in hand, but, as I cast a hurried glance about me, I saw that Dorothy had not stirred. She still sat, her head on her hand, gazing into the glowing coals. The footsteps were louder now, and I went to one boundary wall and then to another. There was some one pacing up and down in Cragent’s rooms. Tom was beside me as I bent to listen, his face the picture of eagerness. “There must have been some one in there all the time,” I whispered. “But if there was, I should have thought he would have been disturbed by our moving in and would have come out.” “The janitor told me that Cragent had not come in, and that there was no one working with him,” muttered Tom. “I don’t see through it.” Back and forth went the steps. Tom put his pipe in his mouth and began smoking with long regular puffs. “I believe there’s another entrance to these rooms,” he said finally. “I’m going out to reconnoitre.” Silently and carefully he tiptoed out, without Dorothy’s knowing of his departure. I brought my chair over nearer the wall and sat down to wait. A hush followed, broken only by the incessant low roar of the city, that roar which to the attentive ear in its deep, firm bass is wholly differentiated from the shrill staccato of New York, the lower, swifter tones of Paris, or the middle-toned, ordered hum of Berlin. On the other side of the wall the steps went on, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, turn, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, turn. On and on, with unvarying regularity, marched the heavy, thrusting step that reverberated over the old floor. Dorothy sat motionless, her eyes still fixed upon the fire, oblivious to the world, her soft hair contrasting with the rich fur of her coat lying draped over the back of an old chair. I heard the slow creak of an opening door, and went softly toward a beckoning arm in gray.