The horrors got hold of me at the
bare thought of it.
"I'll leave the house," I said. "Better be out on the road in the rain and
dark, than back in that room, after what I've seen in it. Lend me the
light to get my clothes by, and tell me what I'm to pay."
The landlord led the way back with his light into the bedroom. "Pay?" says
he. "You'll find your score on the slate when you go downstairs. I
wouldn't have taken you in for all the money you've got about you, if I
had known your dreaming, screeching ways beforehand. Look at the
bed--where's the cut of a knife in it? Look at the window--is the lock
bursted? Look at the door (which I heard you fasten yourself)--is it broke
in? A murdering woman with a knife in my house! You ought to be ashamed of
yourself!"
My eyes followed his hand as it pointed first to the bed--then to the
window--then to the door. There was no gainsaying it. The bed sheet was as
sound as on the day it was made. The window was fast. The door hung on its
hinges as steady as ever. I huddled my clothes on without speaking. We
went downstairs together. I looked at the clock in the bar-room. The time
was twenty minutes past two in the morning. I paid my bill, and the
landlord let me out. The rain had ceased; but the night was dark, and the
wind was bleaker than ever. Little did the darkness, or the cold, or the
doubt about the way home matter to _me_.
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