Once more my eyes fell upon the wardrobe, with its cheap varnish and lock. I had certainly not locked this overnight. Could it have creaked itself farther open? It did not for the moment strike me that the noise came from another quarter, and that the footsteps were still to be explained. I was only too thankful to find the barest apology of an explanation. So I locked the wardrobe as carefully as possible, noticing that the lock was not one of the first quality, and once more retired to bed, and put out my candle, greatly relieved.
Scarcely ten minutes had passed (as I afterwards ascertained) when the whole scene was enacted once more! The same cautious tread, the same sound of the outer door creaking slowly on its hinges—there was nothing in the least uncanny about it per se. It was just the normal noise that any late comer would make who was thoughtful enough not to disturb a sleeping house.
But my impatience got the better of my fears this time. I was not going to be decoyed out of bed a second time on a wild-goose chase. "It must have been that wardrobe door after all! As to the footsteps, I don't know and I don't care! The cheap lock must have given way, and I shall find the wardrobe door has swung open, I am sure."
With this comforting assurance I turned round, and in a few minutes fell into a deep sleep, after the varied excitements of the night.
Next morning I stepped gaily into the smaller division of the room to begin my toilet, and triumphantly turned round to convince myself of the truth of my theory about the wardrobe door. To my infinite astonishment and perplexity the wardrobe was securely locked, just as I had left it in the middle of the night.
I have never had any explanation of this mystery; but I changed my fine big room for a much less desirable one that morning, and made some excuse about wishing for a quieter room at the back of the house.
The next evening, sitting in my new abode with my travelling companion, she showed far more interest in my adventure than in the Petersburg tragedy and subsequent vision of mine.
So much so that I invited her to take a pencil and see if she could get any sort of explanation of the mystery; for although not at all intuitive, she knew something of what is called automatic writing.
I give her narrative, not as being in the slightest degree evidential, but for its intrinsic interest, and because I am personally convinced that she had not sufficient imagination to have made it up on the spur of the moment.
Miss Greenlow's "message" was to the following effect:—