I stepped on the terrace and listened.  There was not a sound in the world, not even the distant rumble of a cart.  The pile towered above me like a mausoleum, and I reflected that it must take some nerve to burgle an empty house.  It would be good enough fun to break into a bustling dwelling and pinch the plate when the folk were at dinner, but to burgle emptiness and silence meant a fight with the terrors in a man’s soul.  It was worse in my case, for I wasn’t cheered with prospects of loot.  I wanted to get inside chiefly to soothe my conscience.

I hadn’t much doubt I would find a way, for three years of war and the frequent presence of untidy headquarters’ staffs have loosened the joints of most Picardy houses.  There’s generally a window that doesn’t latch or a door that doesn’t bar.  But I tried window after window on the terrace without result.  The heavy green sun-shutters were down over each, and when I broke the hinges of one there was a long bar within to hold it firm.  I was beginning to think of shinning up a rain-pipe and trying the second floor, when a shutter I had laid hold on swung back in my hand.  It had been left unfastened, and, kicking the snow from my boots, I entered a room.

A gleam of moonlight followed me and I saw I was in a big salon with a polished wood floor and dark lumps of furniture swathed in sheets.  I clicked the bulb at my belt, and the little circle of light showed a place which had not been dwelt in for years.  At the far end was another door, and as I tiptoed towards it something caught my eye on the parquet.  It was a piece of fresh snow like that which clumps on the heel of a boot.  I had not brought it there.  Some other visitor had passed this way, and not long before me.

Very gently I opened the door and slipped in.  In front of me was a pile of furniture which made a kind of screen, and behind that I halted and listened.  There was somebody in the room.  I heard the sound of human breathing and soft movements; the man, whoever he was, was at the far end from me, and though there was a dim glow of Moon through a broken shutter I could see nothing of what he was after.  I was beginning to enjoy myself now.  I knew of his presence and he did not know of mine, and that is the sport of stalking.

An unwary movement of my hand caused the screen to creak.  Instantly the movements ceased and there was utter silence.  I held my breath, and after a second or two the tiny sounds began again.  I had a feeling, though my eyes could not assure me, that the man before me was at work, and was using a very small shaded torch.  There was just the faintest moving shimmer on the wall beyond, though that might come from the crack of moonlight.

Apparently he was reassured, for his movements became more distinct.  There was a jar as if a table had been pushed back.  Once more there was silence, and I heard only the intake of breath.  I have very quick ears, and to me it sounded as if the man was rattled.  The breathing was quick and anxious.