Again Jimmie Dale listened.

There was not a sound save the night sounds--the light breeze whispering through the branches of the trees; the far-off rumble of a train; the whir of insects; the hoarse croaking of a frog from some near-by creek or pond.
The window sash was raised an inch, another, and gradually to the top.
Like a shadow, Jimmie Dale pulled himself up to the sill, and, poised there, his hand parted the heavy portieres that hung within.

It was too dark to distinguish even a single object in the room.

He lowered himself to the floor, and slipped cautiously between the portieres.
From somewhere in the house, a clock began to strike.

Jimmie Dale counted the strokes.