" I said good-night, and
instinctively took the road to my old abode. If I only set about it
carefully, I might be able to get upstairs without being heard; there were
eight steps in all, and only the two top ones creaked under my tread. Down
at the door I took off my shoes, and ascended. It was quiet everywhere. I
could hear the slow tick-tack of a clock, and a child crying a little.
After that I heard nothing. I found my door, lifted the latch as I was
accustomed to do, entered the room, and shut the door noiselessly after
me.
Everything was as I had left it. The curtains were pulled aside from the
windows, and the bed stood empty. I caught a glimpse of a note lying on
the table; perhaps it was my note to the landlady--she might never have
been up here since I went away.
I fumbled with my hands over the white spot, and felt, to my astonishment,
that it was a letter. I take it over to the window, examine as well as it
is possible in the dark the badly-written letters of the address, and make
out at least my own name. Ah, I thought, an answer from my landlady,
forbidding me to enter the room again if I were for sneaking back.
Slowly, quite slowly I left the room, carrying my shoes in one hand, the
letter in the other, and the blanket under my arm. I draw myself up, set
my teeth as I tread on the creaking steps, get happily down the stairs,
and stand once more at the door.
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