He had forgotten that.
A sudden silence fell on the house: a deep and profound stillness, as though seas and wind had hushed their wailing speech to listen for the answer to the knock.

The birds, too, were silent.

The house remained immutably quiet.

Charles Turold bent down, and peered through the keyhole, but could see nothing within but darkness.

Then, as he looked, a sound reached his ears, a sound like a thin cackle of laughter from the interior of the house.