Entering the library, I lit the gas as Sinclair had requested. Then I
tried the conservatory door. It was unlocked. Casting a sharp glance
around, I made sure that the lounges were all unoccupied, and that I
could safely leave Sinclair to hold his contemplated interview without
fear of interruption. Then, dreading a premature arrival on his part, I
slid quickly out, and moved down the hall to where the light of the one
burning jet failed to penetrate. "I will watch from here," thought I,
and entered upon the quick pacing of the floor which my impatience and
the overwrought condition of my nerves demanded.
But before I had turned on my steps more than half a dozen times, a
brilliant ray coming from some half-open door in the rear caught my eye,
and I stepped back to see if any one was sharing my watch. In doing so I
came upon the little spiral staircase which, earlier in the evening,
Sinclair had heard creak under some unknown footstep. Had this footstep
been Dorothy's, and if so, what had brought her into this remote portion
of the house? Fear? Anguish? Remorse? A flying from herself or from
_it_? I wished I knew just where she had been found by the two young
persons who had brought her back into her aunt's room. No one had
volunteered the information, and I had not seen the moment when I felt
myself in a position to demand it.
Proceeding further, I stood amazed at my own forgetfulness. The light
which had attracted my attention came from the room devoted to the
display of Miss Murray's wedding-gifts. This I should have known
instantly, having had a hand in their arrangement. But all my faculties
were dulled that night, save such as responded to dread and horror.
Before going back I paused to look at the detective whose business it
was to guard the room. He was sitting very quietly at his post, and if
he saw me he did not look up. Strange that I had forgotten this man when
keeping my own vigil above. I doubted if Sinclair had remembered him
either. Yet he must have been unconsciously sharing our watch from start
to finish--must even have heard the cry as only a waking man could hear
it. Should I ask him if this was so? No. Perhaps I had not the courage
to hear his answer.
Shortly after my return into the main hall I heard steps on the grand
staircase. Looking up, I saw the two girls descending, followed by
Sinclair. He had been successful, then, in inducing Dorothy to come
down. What would be the result? Could I stand the suspense of the
impending interview?
As they stepped within the rays of the solitary gas jet already
mentioned, I cast one quick look into Gilbertine's face, then a long one
into Dorothy's. I could read neither. If it was horror and horror only
which rendered both so pale and fixed of feature, then their emotion was
similar in character and intensity. But if in either breast the one
dominant sentiment was fear--horrible, blood-curdling fear--then was
that fear confined to Dorothy; for while Gilbertine advanced bravely,
Dorothy's steps lagged, and at the point where she should have turned
into the library, she whirled sharply about, and made as if she would
fly back upstairs.
But one stare from Gilbertine, one word from Sinclair, recalled her to
herself, and she passed in, and the door closed upon the three. I was
left to prevent possible intrusion, and to eat out my heart in
intolerable suspense.