"Thank you," said Stephen.
When Ellen had gone he looked down at the floor and Fetzer looked at him. Her lips had parted; she pressed her hand against them as though to close them. She had always known that Hilda was a wicked woman, but not that she was as wicked as this!
Ellen climbed the steps slowly. She heard presently Hilda's motor stop at the door, and Hilda come upstairs. Then quiet fell once more. After an hour the door of the motor slammed again—Stephen and Hilda had gone out to dinner. She heard late at night the sound of their return. She had remembered now suddenly and clearly a forgotten detail of their visit to the farmhouse.
"Dementia, Father!" she heard herself say. "Who has dementia?"
She looked at her open door. Did she hear the sound of a creeping approach? She sat upright. If she closed and locked her door she would leave Fetzer to the mercy of she knew not what. But she would lock the door at the head of the stairs; then they would both be safe. But she might shut out a call for help! Did she hear now a half-smothered voice? She rose and slipped barefooted into the passage. There she saw a small dark figure.
"Is that you, Ellen?" asked a sharp voice.
"I thought I heard a noise."
"You were dreaming. It was nothing. Go back to bed and shut your door."
Ellen obeyed, and Fetzer sat down on the upper step from which she had risen, and suddenly the clock struck two. The sound of voices was not imaginary.
"Can't you sleep, Hilda?"