EVIDENCE
vain some hope, some rest for her mind amid the torture of her thoughts.
Suddenly she started up and sat clutching the yellow packet to her breast, her gaze fixed on the door into Cyril’s room. Had she heard a knock? Or was it only imagination? Yes. There it was again. She leaned over hurriedly and blew out the candle and lay very still, her teeth chattering with the cold, her body trembling. He was knocking again, a little louder this time, and she heard his voice through the keyhole whispering her name. She made no response and feigned sleep. He knocked again still louder and she heard her name spoken quite distinctly. He would awaken the house if this went on. When he knocked again she got up and went over to the door.
“Doris!” he was saying.
She answered him.
“Will you open the door—just a crack?”
“No,” she whispered.
“I want to speak to you.”
“You cannot.”
“Please.”
“I’m listening. What do you want to say?”
“I’ve lost something—something that must have fallen from my pocket.”
She was silent.
And then in quick anxious tones:
“You didn’t see—anythin’—on the floor by the door?”
“No,” she lied, trembling. “I didn’t.”
She heard him mutter.
“You’re sure?” came his voice again.
“Yes.”
And then in dubious tones:
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