There was another lamp there with a reflector which quite lit up the several objects in it,--three chairs and some pictures hanging on the wall.

What was I doing there?
Perfect silence reigned throughout.

Everything was sunk in repose.

What was the instinct that urged me towards Mademoiselle Stangerson's chamber?
Why did a voice within me cry: 'Go on, to the chamber of Mademoiselle Stangerson!' I cast my eyes down upon the carpet on which I was treading and saw that my steps were being directed towards Mademoiselle Stangerson's chamber by the marks of steps that had already been made there.

Yes, on the carpet were traces of footsteps stained with mud leading to the chamber of Mademoiselle Stangerson.
Horror! Horror!--I recognised in those footprints the impression of the neat boots of the murderer! He had come, then, from without in this wretched night.