Mechanically our hero approached the window in order to get a breath of fresh air—when he was suddenly seized with a violent fit of shuddering;—a feeling came over him that something unusual and unheard-of was happening before his very eyes. He had not had time to open the window when something he saw caused him to slip behind the corner of the curtain, and hide himself. The man in the crape hatband was standing on the opposite side of the street. He was standing with his face turned directly towards Velchaninoff’s window, but evidently unaware of the latter’s presence there, and was carefully examining the house, and apparently considering some question connected with it. He seemed to come to a decision after a moment’s thought, and raised his finger to his forehead; then he looked quietly about him, and ran swiftly across the road on tiptoe. He reached the gate, and entered it; this gate was often left open on summer nights until two or three in the morning. “He’s coming to me,” muttered Velchaninoff, and with equal caution he left the window, and ran to the front door; arrived in the hall, he stood in breathless expectation before the door, and placed his trembling hand carefully upon the hook which he had fastened a few minutes since, and stood listening for the tread of the expected footfall on the stairs. His heart was beating so loud that he was afraid he might miss the sound of the cautious steps approaching. He could understand nothing of what was happening, but it seemed clear that his dream was about to be realised. Velchaninoff was naturally brave. He loved risk for its own sake, and very often ran into useless dangers, with no one by to see, to please himself. But this was different, somehow; he was not himself, and yet he was as brave as ever, but with something added. He made out every movement of the stranger from behind his own door. “Ah!—there he comes!—he’s on the steps now!—here he comes!—he’s up now!—now he’s looking down stairs and all about, and crouching down! Aha! there’s his hand on the door-handle—he’s trying it!—he thought he would find it unlocked!—then he must know that I _do_ leave it unlocked sometimes!—He’s trying it again!—I suppose he thinks the hook may slip!—he doesn’t care to go away without doing anything!” So ran Velchaninoff’s thoughts, and so indeed followed the man’s actions. There was no doubt about it, someone was certainly standing outside and trying the door-handle, carefully and cautiously pulling at the door itself, and, in fact, endeavouring to effect an entrance; equally sure was it that the person so doing must have his own object in trying to sneak into another man’s house at dead of night. But Velchaninoff’s plan of action was laid, and he awaited the proper moment; he was anxious to seize a good opportunity—slip the hook and chain—open the door wide, suddenly, and stand face to face with this bugbear, and then ask him what the deuce he wanted there.