Livid with terror, with the perspiration standing out on his forehead, Heyton leant against the door as if powerless to move, powerless to stand upright.

The door between the dressing-room and the bedroom opened; instinctively, Heyton stretched out his hand, found the switch, and extinguished the light.
"Who is there ?" came the Marquess's voice.

"What is it?
Who is there ?" The voice came nearer; the Marquess was now in the dressing-room.

Heyton knew that his father was standing still; that, in another instant, he would be calling for assistance.

But the Marquess did not speak; he made a movement, and Heyton guessed that his father was returning to the bedroom to turn up all the lights there.
With a smothered oath, the wretched man stole forward, felt for the fireplace with his foot, caught up the poker and, feeling his way round the wall, reached the bedroom door.