Well, I must be gettin'
back. So long."
Offitt had walked directly home after this conversation, looking
neither to the right nor the left, like a man asleep. He had gone to
his room, locked his door behind him, and sat down upon the edge of his
bed and given himself up to an eager dream of crime. His heart beat,
now fast, now slow; a cold sweat enveloped him; he felt from time to
time half suffocated.
Suddenly he heard a loud knocking at his door--not as if made by the
hand, but as if some one were hammering. He started and gasped with a
choking rattle in his throat. His eyes seemed straining from their
sockets. He opened his lips, but no sound came forth.
The sharp rapping was repeated, once and again. He made no answer. Then
a loud voice said:
"Hello, Andy, you asleep?"
He threw himself back on his pillow and said yawningly, "Yes. That you,
Sam? Why don't you come in?"
"'Cause the door's locked."
He rose and let Sleeny in; then threw himself back on the bed,
stretching and gaping.
"What did you make that infernal racket with?"
"My new hammer," said Sam.
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