This scream seemed to come from the room where we had just heard voices.
With a common impulse Sinclair and I both started down the hall, only to
find ourselves met by a dozen wild interrogations from behind as many
quickly opened doors. Was it fire? Had burglars got in? What was the
matter? Who had uttered that dreadful shriek? Alas! that was the
question which we of all men were most anxious to hear answered. Who?
Gilbertine or Dorothy?
Gilbertine's door was reached first. In it stood a short, slight figure,
wrapped in a hastily-donned shawl. The white face looked into ours as we
stopped, and we recognised little Miss Lane.
"What has happened?" she gasped. "It must have been an awful cry to
waken everybody so!"
We never thought of answering her.
"Where is Gilbertine?" demanded Sinclair, thrusting his hand out as if
to put her aside.
She drew herself up with sudden dignity.
"In bed," she replied. "It was she who told me that somebody had
shrieked. I didn't wake."
Sinclair uttered a sigh of the greatest relief that ever burst from a
man's overcharged breast.
"Tell her we will find out what it means," he answered kindly, drawing
me rapidly away.
By this time Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong were aroused, and I could hear the
slow and hesitating tones of the former in the passage behind us.
"Let us hasten," whispered Sinclair, "Our eyes must be the first to see
what lies behind that partly-opened door."