’Phemie went downstairs, taking a comforter with her, and went into the long corridor leading from the west wing entry to the green door. The girls had never taken the old davenport out of this wide hall, and ’Phemie curled up on this–with its hard, hair-cloth-covered arm for a pillow–spread the quilt over her, and tried to compose her nerves here within sight and sound of the east wing entrance.
Suppose somebody was already in the offices?
The thought became so insistent that, after ten minutes, she was forced to creep along to the green door and try the latch.
With her hand on it, she heard a sudden sound from the room nearby. Was somebody astir in the Colesworth quarters?
This was late Saturday night–almost midnight, in fact; and of course Harris Colesworth was in the house. Sometimes he read until very late.
So ’Phemie turned again, after a moment, and lifted the latch. Then she pushed tentatively on the door, and—
It swung open!
’Phemie gasped–an appalling sound it seemed in the stillness of the corridor and at that hour of the night.
Often, while the key had been in her possession, she had tried the door as she passed it while working about the house. It had been securely locked.
Then, she told herself now, on the instant, the key had been found and it had been put to use. Somebody had already been in the old doctor’s offices and had ransacked the rooms.