The clock struck nine; work was laid aside; Mrs. Oleander read a chapter
aloud out of the Bible, and they then all adjourned to their respective
chambers. Doors and windows had been secured at nightfall, Tiger and
Nero liberated--their hoarse, deep growls every now and then making
night hideous.
Up in her own apartment, Mrs. Susan Sharpe's first act was to pull up
the curtain and seat herself by the window. The night was pitch
dark--moonless, starless--with a sighing wind and a dully moaning sea.
It was the desolation of utter desolation, down in that dismal sea-side
prison--the two huge dogs below the only living things to be heard.
"It's enough to drive any one mad, this horrible place," said Mrs. Susan
Sharpe, to herself; "and the very weather seems in the conspiracy
against us."
She took her lamp as she spoke, and held it close to the window, with an
anxious, listening face. Its solitary red ray streamed far out over the
black road.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, then a sound rent the night
silence--a long, shrill, sharp whistle.
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