There was a noise somewhere within
the house. A door slammed in the distance. Then a confused,
dull murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy
footsteps rapidly approaching. They were in the passage outside
the room. They paused at the door. The door opened. There was
a sharp snick as the electric light was turned on. The door
closed once more, and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was
borne to our nostrils. Then the footsteps continued backwards
and forwards, backwards and forwards, within a few yards of us.
Finally, there was a creak from a chair, and the footsteps ceased.
Then a key clicked in a lock and I heard the rustle of papers.
So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through.
From the pressure of Holmes's shoulder against mine I knew
that he was sharing my observations. Right in front of us,
and almost within our reach, was the broad, rounded back of
Milverton. It was evident that we had entirely miscalculated
his movements, that he had never been to his bedroom, but that
he had been sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the
farther wing of the house, the windows of which we had not seen.
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