There were French windows upon the ground floor, all of them
closely shuttered. Although he recognized that he was taking
desperate chances, he inspected each one of them closely.
Passing gently from window to window, his quest ultimately earned
its reward. Through a crack in one of the shutters a dim light
shone out. His heart was beating uncomfortably, although he had
himself well in hand; and, crawling into the recess formed by the
window, he pressed his ear against a pane and listened intently.
At first he could hear nothing, but, his investigation being
aided by the stillness of the night, he presently became aware
that a voice was speaking within the room--deliberately,
musically. The beating of his heart seemed to make his body throb
to the very finger tips. He had recognized the voice to be the
voice of Ormuz Khan!
Now, his sense of hearing becoming attuned to the muffled tones,
he began to make out syllables, words, and, finally, sentences.
Darkness wrapped him about, so that no one watching could have
seen his face. But he himself knew that under the bronze which he
never lost he had grown pale. His heartbeats grew suddenly
fainter, an eerie chill more intense than any which the note of
danger had ever occasioned caused him to draw sharply back.
"My God!" he whispered. He drew his automatic swiftly from his
pocket, and, pressed against the wall beside the window, looked
about him as a man looks who finds himself surrounded by enemies.
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