All this was but a rapid survey, for I dare not remain there, my back to that black interior.  The body of the dead man huddled on the floor, the unknown mystery of the dark house, filled me with an awful dread.  Seized by sudden terror I caught up the extinguished lamp, scarcely breathing until again outside in the hallway, the door closed behind me.  Trembling in every limb I felt my way along through the darkness, guiding myself by the wall.  What could I do?  What ought I to do?  I knew nothing of the house, or where to find the woman; I was not even sure of her presence.  Indeed, the very memory of her snaky eyes gave me new horror.  And Coombs!  Suspecting him, as I did, it would be the height of folly to seek him out yonder in the dark.  There was nothing left but to await daylight; to remain on watch, endeavoring alone to formulate some plan of future action.

Accustomed as I was to danger, the situation set my pulses throbbing—­the intense blackness, the silence, the memory of that dead face, utterly unnerving me.  I imagined things—­a presence in that deserted hall through which I groped.  Some unknown horror close at hand, even a spectral passing down the stairs.  I listened, clinging to the banister-rail, feeling again helplessly for matches.  Perhaps the faint scuffling was some scurrying rat, or some puff of wind in a chimney hole, but God only knows how glad I was to discover the open door to my own room again.  There were matches there on the table, but my hand trembled so I struck three before the wick of the lamp caught fire.  When I ventured to look out again, holding the light so as to see, the hall was desolate.  I tiptoed across, and listened at her door; there was no sound within.

CHAPTER XIII

I GET INTO THE GAME

I crept back, closed the door behind me, and sat down facing it.  My hand shook as I lit a cigar.  This was becoming serious, a ghastly tragedy, in the playing of which I scarcely knew my part.  The whole affair had seemed so simple at first, almost humorous.  The earliest impression being that it was no more than a good joke.  I was willing enough to be an instrument for keeping certain unknown institutions out of a legacy bequeathed them by a crazy man, and saving the property to his rightful heirs.  Why not? especially as the very administrators themselves considered it the proper thing to do.  Of course a technical crime was involved—­I must pretend to be another, even forge that other’s name, but for no criminal purpose.  I was merely paid for the risk assumed, and it was easy money.  Perhaps the years of rough life I had led had blunted my sensibilities to large extent—­had left me less capable of distinguishing between right and wrong, yet, not until Mrs. Bernard had so unexpectedly voiced her doubt did I so much as suspicion I was being made a catspaw of for a criminal end.  I was not willing to confess as much even now, but I saw the affair from a new viewpoint.  I was not so sure, so certain, that I understood the entire truth.