But he had been gradually waking before, and so by neither movement nor cry did he betray that he was awake.

He had not locked the door of his room; that widening strip of black ran vertically down from the lintel to the ground and between the white door and the white door frame.

The door was being cautiously pushed open; the strip of black was the darkness of the passage coming through.
Wogan slid his hand beneath his pillow, and drew the knife from its sheath as silently as the door opened.

The strip of black ceased to widen, there was a slight scuffling sound upon the floor which Wogan was at no loss to understand.

It was the sound of a man crawling into the room upon his hands and knees.
Wogan lay on his side and felt grateful to his host,--an admirable man,--for he had painted his door white, and now he crawled through it on his hands and knees.