“Yes. They were light, furtive footsteps.”
“This took place late at night?”
“Quite late, long after everyone had retired.”
She paused, staring at me with a sort of embarrassment, and presently:
“Were the footsteps those of a man or a woman?” I asked.
“Of a woman. Someone, Mr. Knox,” she bent forward, and that look of fear began to creep into her eyes again, “with whose footsteps I was quite unfamiliar.”
“You mean a stranger to the house?”
“Yes. Oh, it was uncanny.” She shuddered. “The first time I heard it I had been lying awake listening. I was nervous. Madame de Stämer had told me that morning that the Colonel had seen someone lurking about the lawns on the previous night. Then, as I lay awake listening for the slightest sound, I suddenly detected these footsteps; and they paused—right outside my door.”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “What did you do?”
“Frankly, I was too frightened to do anything. I just lay still with my heart beating horribly, and presently they passed on, and I heard them no more.”
“Was your door locked?”
“No.” She laughed nervously. “But it has been locked every night since then!”
“And these sounds were repeated on other nights?”
“Yes, I have often heard them, Mr. Knox. What makes it so strange is that all the servants sleep out in the west wing, as you know, and Pedro locks the communicating door every night before retiring.”
“It is certainly strange,” I muttered.
“It is horrible,” declared the girl, almost in a whisper.
