"Yes, my dear."
"And the windows?"
"Yes."
Not quite content with my answer, Rachel went slyly around to all the windows, and then to the door, to ascertain their security; then she searched the closets, and finally got into bed.
I soon followed her example, but found myself more sleepless than upon the preceding evening. I know not exactly how long I had lain awake, thinking of the dead proprietors, of Madeleine Van Der Vaughan, and her sad history and tragic fate (whatever they might have been), and of the stern, dark woman of my dream, and of the blood-stained floor, and trying to combine these materials into some coherent whole, when suddenly I heard the lock click back, the door swing slowly open, and a rustle, as of silken drapery, and I opened my eyes to behold the awful woman of my dream standing in the middle of the room, and pointing sternly to the blood-stained floor!
And in the very same instant that I heard and saw this, Rachel had also been awakened, and was even now asking in frightened tones:
"Who is that?"
But there was no answer.
"Who is that?" again asked the girl.
And still there was no answer.