For another five minutes Shorthouse waited, and then the suspense became too much.  He could not stand that open door!  The candles were close beside him and he struck a match and lit them, expecting in the sudden glare to receive at least a terrific blow.  But nothing happened, and he saw at once that the room was entirely empty.  Walking over with the pistol cocked he peered out into the darkness of the landing and then closed the door and turned the key.  Then he searched the room—­bed, cupboard, table, curtains, everything that could have concealed a man; but found no trace of the intruder.  The owner of the footsteps had disappeared like a ghost into the shadows of the night.  But for one fact he might have imagined that he had been dreaming:  the bag had vanished!

There was no more sleep for Shorthouse that night.  His watch pointed to 4 a.m. and there were still three hours before daylight.  He sat down at the table and continued his sketches.  With fixed determination he went on with his drawing and began a new outline of the man’s head.  There was something in the expression that continually evaded him.  He had no success with it, and this time it seemed to him that it was the eyes that brought about his discomfiture.  He held up his pencil before his face to measure the distance between the nose and the eyes, and to his amazement he saw that a change had come over the features.  The eyes were no longer open. The lids had closed!

For a second he stood in a sort of stupefied astonishment.  A push would have toppled him over.  Then he sprang to his feet and held a candle close up to the picture.  The eye-lids quivered, the eye-lashes trembled.  Then, right before his gaze, the eyes opened and looked straight into his own.  Two holes were cut in the panel and this pair of eyes, human eyes, just fitted them.

As by a curious effect of magic, the strong fear that had governed him ever since his entry into the house disappeared in a second.  Anger rushed into his heart and his chilled blood rose suddenly to boiling point.  Putting the candle down, he took two steps back into the room and then flung himself forward with all his strength against the painted panel.  Instantly, and before the crash came, the eyes were withdrawn, and two black spaces showed where they had been.  The old huntsman was eyeless.  But the panel cracked and split inwards like a sheet of thin cardboard; and Shorthouse, pistol in hand, thrust an arm through the jagged aperture and, seizing a human leg, dragged out into the room—­the Jew!

Words rushed in such a torrent to his lips that they choked him.  The old Hebrew, white as chalk, stood shaking before him, the bright pistol barrel opposite his eyes, when a volume of cold air rushed into the room, and with it a sound of hurried steps.  Shorthouse felt his arm knocked up before he had time to turn, and the same second Garvey, who had somehow managed to burst open the window came between him and the trembling Marx.  His lips were parted and his eyes rolled strangely in his distorted face.