Suddenly Curtis’ hand on the telephone instrument clenched and his body grew rigid. A sixth sense, which tells of another’s presence, warned him that he was not alone. It was a large bedroom with windows opening upon a balcony which circled the old mansion, two closets, and a mirrored door which led to a dressing room beyond and a shower bath.
From the direction of the windows came a sigh, then the sound of some one rising stiffly from the floor, and a chair rasped against another piece of furniture as it was dragged forward with some force.
Moving always in darkness it had not occurred to Curtis to switch on the electric light when first entering the room. But why had not his appearance alarmed the intruder? He had made no especial effort to enter noiselessly. It must be that the room was unlighted. There was one way of solving the problem. Curtis opened his mouth, but the challenge, “Who’s there?” remained unspoken, checked by the unmistakable soft swish of silken garments. The intruder was a woman.
What was a woman doing in his bedroom? His bedroom, but suppose it wasn’t his bedroom? Suppose he had walked into some woman’s room by mistake and _he_ was the intruder? The thought made him break out in a cold perspiration. No, it could not be. It was _his_ bedroom; the string tied to the door knob proved that.
A sudden movement behind him caused Curtis to turn his head and the sound of a light footfall gave warning of the woman’s approach. As she passed the alcove something was tossed against Curtis’ extended hand, and then she slipped out of the room. Curtis instinctively stooped and picked up the object. As he smoothed out the small square of fine linen he started, then held it up to his nose—only to remove it in haste. Chloroform was a singular scent to find on a woman’s handkerchief.
The door of his bedroom had been left ajar and through the opening came a woman’s voice.
“Good gracious, the hall is in darkness!” Mrs. Meredith’s tones were unmistakable. “Anne, how you startled me!” in rising crescendo. “Come to bed, child; the fuse is probably burned out.” A door was shut with some vigor, then silence.
Curtis slipped the handkerchief inside his coat pocket and once again turned to the house telephone. His nervous fingers spun the dial around to the fifth hole and he pressed the button. He must chance it that Hollister’s call number was five. Three times he pushed the button, each with a stronger pressure, before a sleepy “hello” came over the wires.