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Blore stood rigid—listening. He could hear sounds everywhere now, cracks, rustles, mysterious whispers—but his dogged, realistic brain knew them for what they were—the creations of his own heated imagination.

And then suddenly he heard something that was not imagination. Footsteps, very soft, very cautious, but plainly audible to a man listening with all his ears as Blore was listening.

They came softly along the corridor (both Lombard’s and Armstrong’s rooms were farther from the stairhead than his). They passed his door without hesitating or faltering.

And as they did so, Blore made up his mind.

He meant to see who it was! The footsteps had definitely passed his door going to the stairs. Where was the man going?

When Blore acted, he acted quickly, surprisingly so for a man who looked so heavy and slow. He tiptoed back to the bed, slipped matches into his pocket, detached the plug of the electric lamp by his bed and picked it up, winding the flex round it. It was a chromium affair with a heavy ebonite base—a useful weapon.

He sprinted noiselessly across the room, removed the chair from under the door handle and with precaution unlocked and unbolted the door. He stepped out into the corridor. There was a faint sound in the hall below. Blore ran noiselessly in his stockinged feet to the head of the stairs.

At that moment he realised why it was he had heard all these sounds so clearly. The wind had died down completely and the sky must have cleared. There was faint moonlight coming in through the landing window and it illuminated the hall below.

Blore had an instantaneous glimpse of a figure just passing out through the front door.

In the act of running down the stairs in pursuit, he paused.

Once again, he had nearly made a fool of himself! This was a trap, perhaps, to lure him out of the house!

But what the other man didn’t realise was that he had made a mistake, had delivered himself neatly into Blore’s hands.

For, of the three tenanted rooms upstairs, one must now be empty. All that had to be done was to ascertain which!

Blore went swiftly back along the corridor.

He paused first at Dr Armstrong’s door and tapped. There was no answer.

He waited a minute, then went on to Philip Lombard’s room.

Here the answer came at once.

‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s Blore. I don’t think Armstrong is in his room. Wait a minute.’

He went on to the door at the end of the corridor. Here he tapped again.

‘Miss Claythorne. Miss Claythorne.’

Vera’s voice, startled, answered him.

‘Who is it? What’s the matter?’

‘It’s all right, Miss Claythorne. Wait a minute. I’ll come back.’

He raced back to Lombard’s room. The door opened as he did so. Lombard stood there. He held a candle in his left hand. He had pulled on his trousers over his pyjamas.

His right hand rested in the pocket of his pyjama jacket.

He said sharply:

‘What the hell’s all this?’

Blore explained rapidly. Lombard’s eyes lit up.

‘Armstrong—eh? So he’s our pigeon!’ He moved along to Armstrong’s door. ‘Sorry, Blore, but I don’t take anything on trust.’