rt of feeling
ever since this man was brought into the house, that trouble would come
of it. To me the trouble seems to be gathering even now."
Mr. Fentolin laughed softly, a little contemptuously.
"Presentiments," he scoffed, "are the excuses of cowards. Don't be
afraid, Florence. Remember always that I look ahead. Do you think that I
could stay here contented with what you call my compensations--my art,
the study of beautiful things, the calm epicureanism of the sedate and
simple life? You know very well that I could not do that. The craving
for other things is in my heart and blood. The excitement which I cannot
have in one way, I must find in another, and I think that before many
nights have passed, I shall lie on my pillow and hear the guns roar,
hear the footsteps of the great armies of the world moving into battle.
It is for that I live, Florence."
She took up her knitting again. Her eyes were fixed upon the sky-line.
Twice she opened her lips, but twice no words came.
"You understand?" he whispered. "You begin to understand, don't you?"
She looked at him only for a moment and back at her work.
"I suppose so," she sighed.
CHAPTER XX
In the middle of that night Hamel sat up in bed, awakened with a sudden
start by some sound, only the faintest echo of which remained in his
consciousness. His nerves were tingling with a sense of excitement. He
sat up in bed and listened. Suddenly it came again--a long, low moan of
pain, stifled at the end as though repressed by some outside agency. He
leaped from his bed, hurried on a few clothes, and stepped out on to the
landing. The cry had seemed to him to come from the further end of the
long corridor--in the direction, indeed, of the room where Mr. Dunster
lay. He made his way there, walking on tiptoe, although his feet fell
noiselessly upon the thick carpet. A single light was burning from a
bracket in the wall, insufficient to illuminate the empty spaces, but
enough to keep him from stumbling. The corridor towards the south end
gradually widened, terminating in a splendid high window with stained
glass, a broad seat, and a table. On the right, the end room was Mr.
Dunster's apartment, and on the left a flight of stairs led to the floor
above. Hamel stood quite still, listening. There was a light in the
room, as he could see from under the door, but there was no sound of
any one moving. Hamel listened intently, every sense strained. Then
the sound of a
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