There was a low light in all the halls, and occasionally Ford leaned his head over the baluster and commanded a view of the hall below.
Half an hour passed, and then Joyce Stannard appeared from the hall above. She wore a boudoir gown and slippers, and her weary eyes betokened a sleepless night.
She started with surprise at sight of Alan Ford on the stairs. But he made a motion requesting her to be silent, and taking a bit of paper from his pocket he wrote:
“Say no word. Go back to the hall above and remain there, but out of sight of this spot, until I summon you. Overhear all you can, but on no account let yourself be seen.”
Joyce read the strange message, and going back up the few steps she had descended, she sat on a hall window seat, concealed by a light curtain.
Then Alan Ford, with a short, sad sigh, stood up and approached the panelled wall of the staircase. Down the flights the panels of course slanted, but on the landing they were in level row.
Placing his lips to the wall itself, Ford said in a clear low whisper, “Will you come out?”
From behind the wall he heard an agonised moan.
“It would be better,” he said, gently. “Do come.”
Another moment passed, and then, a panel of the wainscot slid open and Beatrice Faulkner stepped forth onto the landing.