Instantly he crouched behind the bed, the heavy glass inkpot that was his one weapon poised in his hand.
The sound did not come again, but as he waited, he saw the door begin to open very slowly, very quietly.
Lower still he crouched, the inkpot ready to throw, every nerve taut and tense for the leap at his foe's throat with which he meant to follow it up. The door opened a little more, very slowly, very carefully. It was wide enough now to admit of entry, and through the opening there sidled, pale and red-eyed, Ella's mother, looking so frail and feeble and so ruffled and disturbed she reminded Rupert irresistibly of a frightened hen.
She edged her way in as though she dared not open the door too widely, and Rupert hesitated in great perplexity and vexation, for he saw that he must show himself, and he feared that she would announce his presence by flight or screams.
But he could not possibly get away without her knowledge; and besides, she might be able to give him useful information.
He stood up quickly, with his finger to his lips. “Hush!” he said. “Not a sound—not a sound.” The warning seemed unnecessary, for Mrs. Dawson appeared too paralysed with fear to utter even the faintest cry as she dropped tremblingly on the nearest chair.
“Hush! Hush!” he said. “Where is Ella?”
“I—I don't know,” quavered Mrs. Dawson.
“When did you see her last?”
“A little while ago,” Mrs. Dawson faltered. “She went upstairs. She didn't come down, so I thought I would try to find her.”