All I could see at first; was that the chamber was small; next, that
the light patch in a line with the window was the white coverlet of a
bed; and next, that somebody, or something, lay on the bed.
I listened again. There was no sound in the room; no heart beating but
my own. I reached out a hand to pull up the blind, and drew it back
again. I dared not.
The daylight grew, minute by minute, on the dull parallelogram of
the blind, and minute by minute that horrible thing on the bed took
something of distinctness. The strain beat me at last. I fetched a
veritable yell to give myself courage, and, reaching for the cord,
pulled up the blind as fast as it would go.
The face on the pillow was that of an old man--a face waxen and
peaceful, with quiet lines about the month and eyes, and long lines of
gray hair falling back from the temples. The body was turned a little
on one side, and one hand lay outside the bedclothes in a very natural
manner. But there were two dark spots on the coverlet.
Then I knew I was face to face with the real householder; and it
flashed on me that I had been indiscreet in taking service as his
butler, and that I knew the face his ex-butler wore.
[Illustration: "FACE TO FACE WITH THE REAL HOUSEHOLDER."]
And, being by this time awake to the responsibilities of the post, I
quitted it three steps at a time, not once looking behind me.
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