“Imagination nothin’,” says I. “We wouldn’t both imagine at once, would we?”
“P-p-probably the wind, then.”
“Wind don’t thump,” says I.
We stood there and argued about it. Of a sudden Mark turned toward the stairs that led down to the office. “Feels like a d-draught,” says he. “I shut the outside door.”
“Maybe it blew open.”
“It c-couldn’t. I fixed it.”
“Let’s see, then,” says I; and all four of us in our nightgowns and bare feet went traipsing down. The door was wide open.
Mark just stood looking at it without a word; then he took hold of his ear and began to jerk at it like he always does when something happens that puzzles him more than ordinary. He went close to the door and looked at the catch as well as he could in the dark. It was all right.
“I shut the d-door and p-pushed the bolt,” says he.
“Then nobody could have got in from outside,” says I.