eyes caught a dull glow in the fireplace at the opposite end of the room—the red gleam of a live ember.
I could not actually credit the evidence of my own eyes, firmly believing, for an instant, the glow was but the reflection of the light held in my hands. Yet a step forward convinced me—the ashes of the fire-place radiated warmth; someone then had been in that very room within an hour, had warmed himself there, and partaken of food. The shock of this discovery was so sudden as to give me a strange, haunted feeling. The house had seemed so completely deserted, so desolate, wrapped in silence and darkness, that the very conception that someone else was hiding there came upon me like a blow. Who could the person be? A faithful slave remaining to guard the property for his master? Some fugitive who, like myself, had sought shelter from the storm? Or Old Ned Cowan seeking to complete his mysterious purpose? Could this be the aftermath of the murder? A search after papers not found upon the body of the dead man? Somehow my mind settled to this theory, leaped to this conclusion—the prowler was Cowan, or else some emissary he had sent. Well, I would find out. Thus far the advantage was mine, for I knew of another presence, while the fellow, whoever he might prove to be, in all
