CHAPTER VIII
THE MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE
THERE was no keyhole through which I could peer, and the opening above the floor was the merest crack. I stood with ear pressed against the panel, fingers gripping the butt of my revolver. Not a movement within could be distinguished. What might be the meaning of all this? What would I encounter when I dashed that door open, and faced the occupant of the room? Who could the fellow possibly be? For what purpose should he shut himself up here alone? Two answers to this last query occurred to me—he might be asleep; or, if by any chance this had been the Major's room, he might be busy rifling his desk. But there was no rustle of papers, no movement of any kind. I stood there for what seemed to me a long while, listening vainly for any sound which would indicate life within, the conviction constantly growing on me that the, man slept. An ordinary latch held the door closed, and I pressed this, opening the barrier slightly. The movement made not the slightest noise, and gave me a glimpse within.
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