Not a bit of it.  It moved as readily and as noiselessly as if it had been oiled.  This silence of the sash so emboldened me that I raised it more than I intended.  In fact, as far as it would go.  Not by a sound did it betray me.  Bending over the sill I put my head and half my body into the room.  But I was no forwarder.  I could see nothing.  Not a thing.  For all I could tell the room might be unfurnished.  Indeed, the likelihood of such an explanation began to occur to me.  I might have chanced upon an empty house.  In the darkness there was nothing to suggest the contrary.  What was I to do?

Well, if the house was empty, in such a plight as mine I might be said to have a moral, if not a legal, right, to its bare shelter.  Who, with a heart in his bosom, would deny it me?  Hardly the most punctilious landlord.  Raising myself by means of the sill I slipped my legs into the room.

The moment I did so I became conscious that, at any rate, the room was not entirely unfurnished.  The floor was carpeted.  I have had my feet on some good carpets in my time; I know what carpets are; but never did I stand upon a softer one than that.  It reminded me, somehow, even then, of the turf in Richmond Park,—­it caressed my instep, and sprang beneath my tread.  To my poor, travel-worn feet, it was luxury after the puddly, uneven road.  Should I, now I had ascertained that—­the room was, at least, partially furnished, beat a retreat?  Or should I push my researches further?  It would have been rapture to have thrown off my clothes, and to have sunk down, on the carpet, then and there, to sleep.  But,—­I was so hungry; so famine-goaded; what would I not have given to have lighted on something good to eat!

I moved a step or two forward, gingerly, reaching out with my hands, lest I struck, unawares, against some unseen thing.  When I had taken three or four such steps, without encountering an obstacle, or, indeed, anything at all, I began, all at once, to wish I had not seen the house; that I had passed it by; that I had not come through the window; that I were safely out of it again.  I became, on a sudden, aware, that something was with me in the room.  There was nothing, ostensible, to lead me to such a conviction; it may be that my faculties were unnaturally keen; but, all at once, I knew that there was something there.  What was more, I had a horrible persuasion that, though unseeing, I was seen; that my every movement was being watched.

What it was that was with me I could not tell; I could not even guess.  It was as though something in my mental organisation had been stricken by a sudden paralysis.  It may seem childish to use such language; but I was overwrought, played out; physically speaking, at my last counter; and, in an instant, without the slightest warning, I was conscious of a very curious sensation, the like of which I had never felt before, and the like of which I pray that I never may feel again,—­a sensation of panic fear.  I remained rooted to the spot on which I stood, not daring to move, fearing to draw my breath.  I felt that the presence will me in the room was something strange, something evil.