"Nothing, I suppose. You could not pursue a lady who shrieked with fear and ran away from you. What a strange story! You say you only know her slightly."
"Literally, very slightly," answered Lamberti.
He had become fluent, telling his story almost excitedly. He now relapsed into his former mood, and stared at the pamphlet before him a moment, before shutting it and putting it away from him.
"It is like all those things—perfectly unaccountable, except on a theory of coincidence," said Guido, at last. "Will you have any cheese?"
Lamberti roused himself and saw the servant at his elbow.
"No, thank you. I forgot one thing. Just as I awoke from that dream last night, I heard the door of my room softly closed."
"What has that to do with the matter?" enquired Guido, carelessly.
"Nothing, except that the door was locked. I always lock my door. I first fell into the habit when I was travelling, for I sleep so soundly that in a hotel any one might come in and steal my things. I should never wake. So I turn the key before going to bed."
"You may have forgotten to do it last night," suggested Guido.
"No. I got up at once, and the key was turned. No one could have come in."