He opened this--wide open--left it open--and entered the hall.
Here it was dark--a pitch blackness.

He stood for a moment, listening--utter silence.

And then--alert, strained, tense in an instant, Jimmie Dale crouched against the wall--and then he smiled a little grimly.

It was only some one coughing upstairs--Markel--in his sleep, perhaps, or, perhaps--in wakefulness.
"I'm a fool!" confided Jimmie Dale to himself, as he recognised the cough that he had heard at the club.

"And yet--I don't know.