“We mustn't wake the servants,” she said in an elaborate whisper. “They need sleep, poor things! But I want to consult you about these communicating doors and the locksmith is coming in the morning.—you see this opens from this side.” She turned the oiled key softly in the lock. “Now Miss Bell thinks they ought to be left so—so that the girls can visit one another if they like—what do you think?”
“I think you are absurd to bring me to the top floor, at this time of night, for a thing like this!” said the old lady. “They should be permanently locked, to my mind! There's no question about it.”
Viva, still in low tones, discussed this point further; introduced the subject of wall-paper or hard finish; pointed out from the window a tall eucalyptus which she thought needed heading; did what she could to keep her mother-in-law on the spot; and presently her efforts were rewarded.
A sound of muffled speech came from the next room—a man's voice dimly heard. Madam Weatherstone raised her head like a warhorse.
“What's this! What's this!” she said in a fierce whisper.
Viva laid a hand on her arm. “Sh!” said she. “Let us make sure!” and she softly unlatched the door.
A brilliant moon flooded the small chamber. They could see little Ilda, huddled in the bedclothes, staring at her door from which the key had fallen. Another key was being inserted—turned—but the bolt held.
“Come and open it, young lady!” said a careful voice outside.
“Go away! Go away!” begged the girl, low and breathlessly. “Oh how can you! Go away quick!”
“Indeed, I won't!” said the voice. “You come and open it.”