It stood at the edge
of the top step, almost barring passage, and on the step below it
was a long fresh scratch. For three steps the scratch was
repeated, gradually diminishing, as if some object had fallen,
striking each one. Then for four steps nothing. On the fifth
step below was a round dent in the hard wood. That was all, and
it seemed little enough, except that I was positive the marks had
not been there the day before.
It bore out my theory of the sound, which had been for all the
world like the bumping of a metallic object down a flight of
steps. The four steps had been skipped. I reasoned that an iron
bar, for instance, would do something of the sort,--strike
two or three steps, end down, then turn over, jumping a few
stairs, and landing with a thud.
Iron bars, however, do not fall down-stairs in the middle of the
night alone. Coupled with the figure on the veranda the agency
by which it climbed might be assumed. But--and here was the
thing that puzzled me most--the doors were all fastened that
morning, the windows unmolested, and the particular door from
the card-room to the veranda had a combination lock of which I
held the key, and which had not been tampered with.
I fixed on an attempt at burglary, as the most natural
explanation--an attempt frustrated by the falling of the object,
whatever it was, that had roused me. Two things I could not
understand: how the intruder had escaped with everything locked,
and why he had left the small silver, which, in the absence of a
butler, had remained down-stairs over night.
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