For some seconds he glanced furtively round the room, his eyes finally resting on the bedstead, which he regarded in a manner that made my flesh creep! Who could he be? what on earth did he want?
Terrified lest he should see me—though why it was he hadn’t done so I couldn’t for the life of me imagine—I kept shrinking backwards, backwards into the alcove where I hung my dresses, in the wild hope that they would afford me a safe hiding-place.
Presently, to my unutterable relief, he disappeared, and I heard his footsteps tiptoeing gently down the staircase.
Here then was my chance of escape! Hardly daring to breathe, I rushed frantically to the door (Heaven preserve me!—it was locked again!) and tearing it open, I made directly for the passage leading to Dora’s room.
On my way I heard a noise—a noise that fascinated and kept me still—the clanging of a bucket.
What could a man be doing with a bucket at this time of night—a bucket!—and on that staircase so daintily furnished with velvet pile?
Breathlessly I watched him ascend, his step light and springing, his head bent low, and the bucket clanging each time he mounted—clang! clang! clang!
The agony I suffered—for I could now only conclude he was either a madman or burglar—was indescribable; I dreaded above all things the act of being seen—of encountering a glance from those evil eyes.
Nearer and nearer he came! One more step, and he stood on the little lobby outside my bedroom door. What was he going to do—to enter my room or follow me?
My heart stood still; a cold sweat burst out all over me; I essayed to shriek and implore the aid of Dora; my throat dried up, my tongue stuck to the palate of my mouth—I was speechless! helpless! hopeless! Another yard, and the uncanny stranger would have me in his clutches.