Despite what I had heard of this hotel in Newburyport, I signed the
register, paid my dollar, let the clerk take my valise, and followed
that sour, solitary attendant up three creaking flights of stairs past
dusty corridors which seemed wholly devoid of life. My room, a dismal
rear one with two windows and bare, cheap furnishings, over-looked
a dingy courtyard otherwise hemmed in by low, deserted brick blocks,
and commanded a view of decrepit westward-stretching roofs with a
marshy countryside beyond. At the end of the corridor was a bathroom--a
discouraging relique with ancient marble bowl, tin tub, faint electric
light, and musty wooden panelling around all the plumbing fixtures. As twilight deepened I turned on the one feeble electric bulb over the
cheap, iron-framed bed, and tried as best I could to read. I felt it
advisable to keep my mind wholesomely occupied, for it would not do
to brood over the abnormalities of this ancient, blight-shadowed town
while I was still within its borders. The insane yarn I had heard from
the aged drunkard did not promise very pleasant dreams, and I felt I
must keep the image of his wild, watery eyes as far as possible from my
imagination. Another thing that disturbed me was the absence of a bolt on the door
of my room. One had been there, as marks clearly showed, but there
were signs of recent removal. No doubt it had become out of order,
like so many other things in this decrepit edifice. In my nervousness
I looked around and discovered a bolt on the clothespress which seemed
to be of the same size, judging from the marks, as the one formerly on
the door. To gain a partial relief from the general tension I busied
myself by transferring this hardware to the vacant place with the aid
of a handy three-in-one device including a screw-driver which I kept
on my keyring. The bolt fitted perfectly, and I was somewhat relieved
when I knew that I could shoot it firmly upon retiring. There were
adequate bolts on the two lateral doors to connecting rooms, and these
I proceeded to fasten. I did not undress, but decided to read till I was sleepy and then
lie down with only my coat, collar, and shoes off. Taking a pocket
flashlight from my valise, I placed it in my trousers, so that I
could read my watch if I woke up later in the dark. Drowsiness,
however, did not come; and when I stopped to analyze my thoughts I
found to my disquiet that I was really unconsciously listening for
something--listening for something which I dreaded but could not name. At length, feeling a fatigue which had nothing of drowsiness in it, I
bolted the newly outfitted hall door, turned off the light, and threw
myself down on the hard, uneven bed--coat, collar, shoes, and all. In
the darkness every faint noise of the night seemed magnified, and a
flood of doubly unpleasant thoughts swept over me. I was sorry I had
put out the light, yet was too tired to rise and turn it on again. Then, after a long, dreary interval, and prefaced by a fresh creaking
of stairs and corridor, there came that soft, damnably unmistakable
sound which seemed like a malign fulfilment of all my apprehensions. Without the least shadow of a doubt, the lock on my hall door was being
tried--cautiously, furtively, tentatively--with a key. The change in the menace from vague premonition to immediate reality
was a profound shock, and fell upon me with the force of a genuine
blow. It never once occurred to me that the fumbling might be a mere
mistake. Malign purpose was all I could think of, and I kept deathly
quiet, awaiting the would-be intruder's next move. After a time the cautious rattling ceased, and I heard the room to the
north entered with a pass key. Then the lock of the connecting door to
my room was softly tried. The bolt held, of course, and I heard the
floor creak as the prowler left the room. After a moment there came
another soft rattling, and I knew that the room to the south of me was
being entered. Again a furtive trying of a bolted connecting door,
and again a receding creaking. This time the creaking went along the
hall and down the stairs, so I knew that the prowler had realized the
bolted condition of my doors and was giving up his attempt for a time. _The one thing to do was to get out of that hotel alive as quickly as I
could, and through some channel other than the front stairs and lobby!_

Rising softly and throwing my flashlight on the switch, I sought
to light the bulb over my bed in order to choose and pocket some
belongings for a swift, valiseless flight. Nothing, however, happened;
and I saw that the power had been cut off. So, filling my pockets
with the flashlight's aid, I put on my hat and tiptoed to the
windows to consider chances of descent. Despite the state's safety
regulations there was no fire escape on this side of the hotel, and
I saw that my windows commanded only a sheer three-story drop to the
cobbled courtyard. On the right and left, however, some ancient brick
business blocks abutted on the hotel; their slant roofs coming up to a
reasonable jumping distance from my fourth-story level. To reach either
of these lines of buildings I would have to be in a room two doors
from my own--in one case on the north and in the other case on the
south--and my mind instantly set to work calculating what chances I had
of making the transfer. First, I reinforced my own outer door by pushing the bureau against
it--little by little, in order to make a minimum of sound. Then,
gathering from the grocery boy's map that the best route out of town
was southward, I glanced first at the connecting door on the south
side of the room. It was designed to open in my direction, hence I
saw--after drawing the bolt and finding other fastenings in place--it
was not a favorable one for forcing. Accordingly abandoning it as a
route, I cautiously moved the bedstead against it to hamper any attack
which might be made on it later from the next room. The door on the
north was hung to open away from me, and this--though a test proved
it to be locked or bolted from the other side--I knew must be my
route. If I could gain the roofs of the buildings in Paine Street and
descend successfully to the ground level, I might perhaps dart through
the courtyard and the adjacent or opposite buildings to Washington
or Bates--or else emerge in Paine and edge around southward into
Washington. In any case, I would aim to strike Washington somehow and
get quickly out of the Town Square region. My preference would be to
avoid Paine, since the fire station there might be open all night. I was irresolutely speculating on when I had better attack the
northward door, and on how I could least audibly manage it, when I
noticed that the vague noises underfoot had given place to a fresh and
heavier creaking of the stairs. A wavering flicker of light showed
through my transom, and the boards of the corridor began to groan with
a ponderous load.