And as St. George turned from the
window he saw that the door leading into the hall, urged by some
nimble gust, imaginative or prying, had swung ajar.
St. George mechanically crossed the room to close the door, noting
how the pale light warmed the stones of that cave-like corridor.
With his hand upon the latch his eyes fell on something crossing the
corridor, like a shadow dissolving from gloom to gloom. Well beyond
the open door, stealing from pillar to pillar in the dimness and
moving with that swiftness and slyness which proclaim a covert
purpose as effectually as would a bell, he saw old Malakh.
Now St. George was in felt-soled slippers and he was coatless,
because in the adjoining room Jarvo, with a heated, helmet-like
apparatus, was attempting to press his blue serge coat. In that
room too was Amory, catching glimpses of himself in a mirror of
polished steel, but within reach, on the divan where Jarvo had just
laid it, was Amory's coat; and St. George caught that up, slipped it
on, and was off down the corridor after the old man, moving as
swiftly and slyly as he.
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