I was standing¹ in the middle of the room, Sydney was between the door and me; Mr Holt was in the hall, just outside the doorway², in which he, so to speak, was framed. As Sydney advanced towards him he was seized with a kind of convulsion,—he had to lean against the side of the door to save himself from falling. Sydney paused, and watched. The spasm⁴ went as suddenly as it came,—Mr Holt became as motionless as he had just now been the other way. He stood in an attitude of febrile expectancy,—his chin raised, his head thrown back, his eyes glancing upwards,—with the dreadful fixed⁵ glare which had come into them ever since we had entered the house. He looked to me as if his every faculty⁶ was strained in the act of listening,—not a muscle in his body seemed to move; he was as rigid⁷ as a figure carved in stone. Presently the rigidity⁸ gave place to what, to an onlooker⁹, seemed causeless agitation¹⁰.