I know that I stood for quite half a minute, staring at the thing stupidly, and wondering what had happened, or if I were going mad. I had found the outer door locked, and now, when I was in the room, a death-like silence reigned; yet here was the candle alight. When at last I mustered courage to take a step or two into the place, and to look round the corner of the table, I think I fully expected to see the man with the knife in him gone, and to know, in some horrible fashion, that he was in that inner room, waiting for me. It took me a long time, even after I had seen him lying there, with that stiff hand still gripping the hilt of the knife, to realize that he was dead, and that he could not possibly have lighted the candle. Even in the horror of that moment, when it dawned upon me slowly and dreadfully that some one else was hidden in those rooms, I know that I laughed softly at the absurdity of the notion that the dead man could have lighted the candle. There was no sound in the place--no movement of any kind. The chambers were very small--just the lobby outside, and the little sitting-room, and a bedroom beyond. The lobby was empty; the sitting-room contained only the dead man and myself; whoever was there must be in the bedroom beyond. I began to form conjectures as to who might be hidden there--going over in my mind this one and that, who might by any possibility be interested in this matter, or in me. Once, as I watched the door of that inner room, there was a mad feeling in my mind that I would blow out the candle, and make a bolt for it; for the door of the bedroom was closed, and whoever was there could not have seen me. Finally I did nothing at all, but just to stand very still, wondering what I should do. In those few minutes I seemed to live a lifetime--to touch the depths of hope and fear, and life and death, and even madness. My horror was not decreased by seeing the door of the bedroom begin slowly to open. It took a long time; because whoever was opening that door half repented of their purpose more than once. For the door would jerk an inch or two open, and then an inch or two back, and then would close again entirely--and all this quite noiselessly. The thing was getting on my nerves to that extent that I know I was on the verge of screaming out, when I saw a hand grasp the lintel of the doorway--a thin bony hand, that gripped the wood tenaciously. Then the door flew open with startling suddenness, and a face--ghastly white, and with a dropping jaw--was thrust out into the room--the face of Jervis Fanshawe.