I saw a keen look come into Ranville's eyes as he turned to look at the woman. She stood before us twisting the corner of her apron with nervous fingers. But it was Carter who asked:
“You know where he is?”
The housekeeper hesitated for a second, then replied:
“Yes. He is in his library. You know, Mr. Carter, that his study and library is in that stone building on the hill. He spends his afternoons there writing on his new book. I know he went there this afternoon. And—” the voice trailed off into silence.
“And what?” came Ranville's low voice.
The woman raised her head and her eyes swept over the three of us. There was not only a look of anxiety in them but, I thought, also a trace of fear. But why there should be the last I failed to understand. But fear there was. She started to speak, hesitated a second, as if she did not wish to put into words what was in her mind, and then suddenly said in a voice which shook a little:
“Only—I don't know what to say. I have called up his library a dozen times, and he does not answer. I went down to the building and called his name, but no answer. Then I tried the door, and it was locked—and he never locks the door when he is working. Then I pounded on the door, but still no one said anything in reply. And—” Once again came silence, and the look of fear crept again across her face. She gave us one bewildered appealing look and wailed:
“He ought to be in his library. I know he was there, but he won't answer the phone, and he did not come to the door. And when I knocked I thought—” For a moment she paused again.
For some reason none of us spoke. Our eyes were upon the frightened face of the woman, whose nervous fingers were never still. And then all at once she lifted her head and completed the sentence.
“And when I knocked at the door, I thought I heard something move inside the library.”