He had always known that the awful hour would arrive when the Terror would grip him; again and again he had seen its eyes, felt its breath, heard its movements, and these movements had been forewarnings of some future day.

That day had arrived.
There was only one thing that he could do; his Friend alone in all the world could help him.

With his soul dizzy and faint from fear, he prayed for his Friend; had he been less frightened he would have screamed aloud for him to come and help him.
The boy's breath came hot into his throat and stuck there, and his heart beat like a high, unresting hammer.
Mrs.Carter, with the candle raised to throw light in front of her, moved forward very cautiously and softly.

She passed down the passage, and then paused very near to the boy.

She looked at the keys, and stole like some heavy, stealthy animal to the door of the long drawing-room.
He watched her as she tried one key after another, making little dissatisfied noises as they refused to fit; then at last one turned the lock and she pushed back the door.
It was certainly impossible for him, in the dim world of his mind, to realise what it was that she intended to do, but he knew, through some strange channel of knowledge, that his mother was concerned in this, and that something more than the immediate peril of himself was involved.
He had also, lost in the dim mazes of his mind, a consciousness that there _were_ treasures in the house, and that his mother was placed there to guard them, and even that he himself shared her duty.
It did not come to him that Mrs.Carter was in pursuit of these treasures, but he _did_ realise that her presence there amongst them brought peril to his mother.