So in his dreams--still there was Mr Haredale,
haggard and careworn, listening in the solitary house to every sound
that stirred, with the taper shining through the chinks until the day
should turn it pale and end his lonely watching.
Chapter 43
Next morning brought no satisfaction to the locksmith's thoughts,
nor next day, nor the next, nor many others. Often after nightfall he
entered the street, and turned his eyes towards the well-known house;
and as surely as he did so, there was the solitary light, still gleaming
through the crevices of the window-shutter, while all within was
motionless, noiseless, cheerless, as a grave. Unwilling to hazard Mr
Haredale's favour by disobeying his strict injunction, he never ventured
to knock at the door or to make his presence known in any way. But
whenever strong interest and curiosity attracted him to the spot--which
was not seldom--the light was always there.
If he could have known what passed within, the knowledge would have
yielded him no clue to this mysterious vigil. At twilight, Mr Haredale
shut himself up, and at daybreak he came forth. He never missed a night,
always came and went alone, and never varied his proceedings in the
least degree.
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