Then they separated, and moved one down each side of the house.

To the two watchers they had the air of a patrol, or of warders pacing the corridors of a prison.
"Let's get out of this," said Dickson, and turned to go.
The air had the curious stillness which precedes the moment of sunset, when the birds of day have stopped their noises and the sounds of night have not begun.

But suddenly in the silence fell notes of music.

They seemed to come from the house, a voice singing softly but with great beauty and clearness.
Dickson halted in his steps.

The tune, whatever it was, was like a fresh wind to blow aside his depression.