As the time sped by he was able to visualize the play; _he_ was sitting
in the audience--he beheld the changing scenes and the tense climax. He
even began to speculate upon the particular star that would be fitted
for the leading part. His one extravagance, in the past, had been
cut-rate seats in the best theatres.
Suddenly the mood passed and all at once Truedale realized that he was
tired--deadly tired. The perspiration stood on his forehead--he ached
from the strain of cramped muscles. Then he looked at his watch; it was
eleven o'clock! The stillness out of doors bespoke a sullen break in the
storm. A determined drip-drip from roof and trees was like the ticking
of a huge clock running down, but good for some time. The fire had died
out, not a bit of red showed in the ashes, but the room was hot, still.
Truedale decided to go to bed without it, and, having come to that
conclusion, he bent his head upon his folded arms and sank into a deep
sleep.
Suddenly he awoke. The room was cold and dark! The lamp had burned
itself out and the storm was again howling in its second attack. Chilled
and obsessed by an unnerving sense of danger, Truedale waited for--he
knew not what! Just then something pressed against his leg and he put
his hand down thinking one of the dogs was crouching close, but a
whispered "sh!" set every muscle tense.
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