ave been going on
for hours; and, as he looked round, the blackness seemed to be full of
strange, gliding points of light, which he was ready to think must be
Stratton's eyes, till common-sense told him that it was all fancy.
Then, too, he felt certain that he could hear rapid movements and his
enemy approaching him, but the sounds were made by his own pulses;
otherwise all was still as death. And at the mental suggestion of death
his horror grew more terrible than he could bear. He grew faint and
giddy, and made a snatch in the air as if to save himself.

The sensation passed off as quickly as it came, but in those brief
moments Guest felt how narrow was the division between sanity and its
reverse, and in a dread greater now than that of an attack by Stratton,
he set his teeth, drew himself up, and forcing himself to grasp the fact
that all this was only the result of a minute or two in the darkness, he
craned forward his neck in the direction of where he believed Stratton
to be, and listened.

Not a breath; not a sound.

There was a clock on the mantelpiece, and he tried to hear its calm,
gentle tick, but gave that up on the instant, feeling sure that it must
have been neglected and left unwound, and nerving himself now, he spoke
out sharply:

"Look here, Mal, old fellow, don't play the fool. Either open the door,
or strike a light, before I smash something valuable."

There was no reply, but the effort he had made over himself had somewhat
restored his balance, and he felt ready to laugh at his childish fears.

"Has he gone, and left me locked in?" he thought, after striving in vain
to hear a sound.

Improbable; for he had not heard the door open or close, and he would
have seen the dim light from the staircase.

No, not if Stratton had softly passed through the inner door and closed
it after him before opening the outer.

"Here, I must act," he said to himself, mentally strung once more. "He
couldn't have played me such a fool's prank as that. Now, where am I?
The writing table should be straight out there."

He stretched forth his hand cautiously, and touched something which
moved. It was a picture in the middle of a panel, hanging by a fine
wire from the rod, and Guest faced round sharply with a touch of his old
dread, for he knew now that he had been for long enough standing in a
position that would give his enemy--if enemy Stratton was--an
opportunity for striking him down from behind.

With