Paul's Footprints

A frantic shuffling sound came from under the bed.

Hope tapped the edge of the bed, signaling Paul to stay quiet.

"It worked." A voice spoke from outside. "I thought they'd have hidden the key to this place, but it was just sitting on the table."

The door swung open, revealing a figure in a black robe.

Not Wilbur or Lavinia... looked like a middle-aged man, probably not old Whateley either...

Numbers appeared:

Agility: 1.00, Physique: 1.47, Vision: 1.03, Mana: 0

Very ordinary numbers, nothing remarkable.

Sounded like he'd stolen the key to get in. Old Whateley hadn't stopped him? Or maybe the old bastard was already dead.

"Who are you?" Hope asked.

"What's this hole about?" The black-robed man ignored Hope, looking around freely. "Whoa, a flush toilet!"

A damn flush toilet.

Hope made his tone stern: "You should introduce yourself first. This is the Whateley house—you're trespassing."

"Trespassing?" The face was hidden, but Hope could almost picture the sneer under that hood—the kind of look a man who'd been to prison a few times and wore it like a badge of honor would have:

"So you're a law-abiding citizen, huh? Then go call the cops. Let the officer handle it."

Sloppy and slick, like an old hand at playing the system.

Hope stayed stern: "I will call the police, but you'd better leave first."

"And if I don't?"

If I don't... have Paul knock him out... no, can't let Paul come out yet... what would he think if he saw someone already under the bed...

He seemed to know something about the Whateley family...

"Grandfather won't be happy." Hope said.

The words were meant to pressure the black-robed man with old Whateley's name, but the meaning was vague—Hope knew nothing about the relationship between the black-robed man and old Whateley, or old Whateley's current state.

The black-robed man's body swayed. Though the face under the hood was unreadable, Hope saw him take half a step back, his back straightening, making him look slightly taller.

That was a sign of fear... one thing was certain: he did know something about old Whateley, at least more than I do... and the key really was stolen...

"Don't be so tense." The black-robed man said. "And don't try to scare me with old Whateley's name. He wouldn't dare do anything to me. You're Hope Whateley, right? And I'm Robert Miller."

All bark, no bite, very concerned with saving face. Hope sized him up quickly.

Even though he said "I'm not afraid of him," he still obediently introduced himself.

"What do you want?" Hope asked.

That was what he most wanted to know.

"Nothing." Robert said casually. "Just looking around."

"Just looking around?"

"I've been here plenty of times, but I've never seen you before."

It sounded like saying: "I've been to the zoo plenty of times, but I've never seen the monkey before."

Wait—he said he'd been here plenty of times... what for... Robert Miller... that name didn't sound unfamiliar... the Edison from another world who invented the lightbulb... was called Karl Miller. What was his relationship with Karl Miller...

Maybe it was just a coincidence, just sharing the same surname... but Wilbur had said...

"Grandfather doesn't like electric lights, but that's only because he hates Karl Miller."

Not disliking electric lights because old people hate new things, but hating the invention because of the inventor...

What kind of conflict could a man on death's door have with an inventor... an ordinary old man, maybe not, but old Whateley was also a cultist.

Maybe the Whateley family and this Karl Miller had some unknown cooperation—a scientist and a cultist working together...

Hmm, historically Edison seemed more like a capitalist than a scientist. This Karl Miller might be the same—a capitalist and a cultist cooperating...

Plausible and sufficiently evil.

All the thoughts completed in an instant. Hope looked at Robert: "Seen enough? You can leave now."

"Leave?" Robert lifted his head. "That hole..."

"You're meddling too much. This is the Whateley house." Hope warned sharply.

He wanted to misdirect the hole as a Whateley family matter, not a "Hope Whateley" matter.

Robert shrugged: "I don't care anyway."

He made as if to leave, turning halfway, then stopped.

Whether it was an illusion or not, Hope felt he had relaxed.

"What's wrong?" Hope asked.

"I just had an idea," Robert said. "Let's go kill Wilbur."

"What?" Hope thought he must have misheard.

"Let's go kill Wilbur. That way, when old Whateley dies, you'll be the only one left in the Whateley family."

Kill Wilbur... It didn't sound bad. After yesterday's events, if someone like Wilbur suddenly dropped dead on the street, Hope would definitely laugh... But the way he said it, like it was a joke...

"Leave."

"You sure you don't want to think it over? I mean, you're already in a bad spot now. Once old Whateley dies, things might get even worse for you."

"...You and Wilbur don't get along?"

"Don't get along?" Robert shook his head. "I just know he's ugly. Too ugly. I don't like him."

A bizarre reason.

"What's your plan?"

"What plan?"

"The plan to kill Wilbur."

Hope heard the sound of fingernails scraping against wood... He'd forgotten Paul was under the bed. Whatever he said, Paul would hear.

Even if Paul didn't like Wilbur, hearing Hope discuss murder with someone here would probably be hard for him to accept.

"Hmm..." Robert mused, then said seriously, "When Wilbur comes back, you stab him with a knife."

"What?"

"Fight him to the death. Only one of you walks away."

Fight to the death?

Hope made a judgment about the man before him.

Another lunatic. And a stupid one at that.

"Leave. Now!"

Robert shrugged, as if he didn't care at all that his suggestion had been rejected. But he didn't move. He stretched out his foot and tapped the floor.

"I said leave!" Hope said. "Don't disturb Grandfather."

"Can't you see it?" Robert asked.

See what?

"Ah, I see. You have albinism—you can't see clearly!" he said. "No matter. I'll describe it to you. About two meters away from you on the floor, there are two faint marks made of a little bit of mud."

Mud?

"The mud forms the shape of a shoe," Robert continued. "A pair of footprints. Someone's been here."

Paul!

He'd found out!

Hope tried his best to stay calm, to avoid giving anything away. "I went out yesterday."

Robert shook his head. "Not you. You're only wearing a pair of worn leather shoes. But these are sneaker prints."

Hope opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Robert cut him off: "Are you going to say you wore sneakers yesterday? I could ask someone else."

I don't even know if I own sneakers...

"No, I never meant to say that." Hope bit his finger. "But Wilbur wore a pair of sneakers yesterday."

"Is that so?"

Robert crouched down:

"But look... Oh, you can't see. Let me tell you: this mud isn't powder; it's clumped into small lumps, because it was still wet not long ago. As far as I know, it hasn't rained in Dunwich for a long time."

"Don't talk nonsense," Hope said. "There are faucets everywhere outside."

Robert looked up. "That's true, I guess. But look, these two footprints are right under this hole in the ceiling."

He took a step back. "Coincidentally, there are no footprints near the door."

He took two steps forward, closer to Hope. "And beside the bed, there are some even fainter traces."

Robert smiled. "He came down through the roof, but you didn't call for help, because you know him. What do you think would happen if I told Wilbur or old Whateley about this?"