Susan had, however, no further information to impart. She was positive that the marks must have been made some time during the night.
"And it's my belief they were made by a skeleton hand," she added. "And as for going into that room again, indeed I just couldn't, not for nobody, meaning no disrespect to your Lordship; and as for the other 'ousemaids, they'll not go near the place either and haven't been since the murder."
"Very well, Susan, I shall not ask you to do so. Those rooms shall not be opened again till this mystery is cleared up. I will go now and lock them up myself."
"Thank you, my lord."
Striding rapidly across the hall, Cyril opened the door of the library. This part of the castle had been equipped with electric light and steam heat, and as he stepped into the darkness, the heavy-scented air almost made him reel. Having found the switch, he noticed at once that the room had indefinably changed since he had been in it last. Notwithstanding the heat, notwithstanding the flood of crimson light, which permeated even the farthest corners, it had already assumed the chill, gloomy aspect of an abandoned apartment.
Stooping over the desk, he eagerly inspected the marks which had so startled the housemaid. Yes, they were still quite visible, although a delicate film of dust had already begun to soften the precision of their outline—very strange! They certainly did look like the imprint of skeleton fingers. He laid his own hand on the desk. His fingers left a mark at least twice as wide as those of the mysterious visitant.
For a long time he stood with bent head pondering deeply; then, throwing back his shoulders, as if he had arrived at some decision, he proceeded to explore the entire suite. Having satisfied himself that no one was secreted on the premises, he turned off the light, shut the door—but he did not turn the key.
Some hours later Cyril, in his great four-posted bed, lay watching, with wide-open eyes, the fantastic shadows thrown by the dancing firelight on the panelled walls. To woo sleep was evidently not his intention, for from time to time he lighted a wax vesta and consulted the watch he held in his hand. At last the hour seemed to satisfy him, for he got out of bed and made a hasty toilet. Having accomplished this as best he could in the semi-obscurity, he slipped a pistol into his pocket and left his room.
Groping his way through the darkness, he descended the stairs and cautiously traversed the hall. Not a sound did he make. His stockinged feet moved noiselessly over the heavy carpet. At the door of the library he paused a moment and listened intently; then, pistol in hand, he threw open the door. Darkness and silence alone confronted him. Closing the door behind him, he lighted a match and carefully inspected the desk. Having assured himself that no fresh marks had appeared on its polished surface, he blew out the match and ensconced himself as comfortably as the limited space permitted behind the curtains of one of the windows. There he waited patiently for what seemed to him an eternity. He had just begun to fear that his vigil would prove fruitless, when his ear was gladdened by a slight sound. A moment later the light was switched on. Hardly daring to breathe, Cyril peered through the curtains. Valdriguez! Cyril's heart gave a bound of exultation. Had he not guessed that those marks could only have been made by her small, bony fingers?
Clad like a nun in a loose, black garment, which fell in straight, austere folds to her feet; a black shawl, thrown over her head, casting strange shadows on her pale, haggard face, she advanced slowly, almost majestically, into the room. Cyril had to acknowledge that she looked more like a medieval saint than a midnight marauder.