That I could have taken the little sound from the bedroom where I
actually heard it, and spread it thus over the entire house and grounds,
is evidence, perhaps, of the state my nerves were in.
The wailing assuredly was in my mind alone. But the longer I hesitated,
the more difficult became my task, and, gathering up my dressing gown,
lest I should trip in the darkness, I passed slowly down the staircase
into the hail below. I carried neither candle nor matches; every switch
in room and corridor was known to me. The covering of darkness was
indeed rather comforting than otherwise, for if it prevented seeing, it
also prevented being seen. The heavy pistol, knocking against my thigh
as I moved, made me feel I was carrying a child's toy, foolishly. I
experienced in every nerve that primitive vast dread which is the Thrill
of darkness. Merely the child in me was comforted by that pistol.
The night was not entirely black; the iron bars across the glass front
door were visible, and, equally, I discerned the big, stiff wooden
chairs in the hall, the gaping fireplace, the upright pillars supporting
the staircase, the round table in the center with its books and
flower-vases, and the basket that held visitors' cards.
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