Then she remembered that other door only a few feet away with its key on the inside and with Jean Marot on the outside. And she trembled more than ever.
What would Jean think of her?
Of course, she knew he would be likely to force the closet door; but when he had found her missing,—what then? Would he be angry? Would he not suspect some trick? Would he persevere till he found her?
It was all about Jean,—of herself she scarcely thought, only so far as the effect might come through him. All at once she felt rather than heard the dull sound of the breaking door beyond.
"Ah! he has broken the door. He will come! He has discovered it!"
She beat the walls with her small fists,—kicked the unresponsive stone with her thin little shoes,—her blows gave out no sound. If she only had something to knock with——
She fumbled blindly in the darkness among the boxes. Perhaps—yes, here was one open, and—
She laid her hand on a heavy, cylindrical substance like a piece of iron gas-pipe, only—funny, but it was packed in something like sawdust.
She tapped smartly on the wall with it—once, twice, thrice—at regular intervals, then listened.