CHAPTER XI
“LA SOMNAMBULA”
When the bell for retiring rang at half-past nine that night, it produced a most remarkable effect, for, instead of suggesting snug beds and dream-land, it seemed instantly to banish any desire for sleep which the previous study hour from eight to nine had aroused in several of the girls.
They all went to their rooms, to be sure, but once within them a startling change took place. Instead of undressing like wise young people, they slipped off their dresses, and put on their night-dresses over the rest of their clothing, then all crawled into bed to await the first act of “La Somnambula.”
They had barely gotten settled when footsteps were heard coming softly down the corridor, as though the feet taking the steps were encased in wool slippers, and the owner of those feet wished to avoid being heard. A few steps were taken, then a pause made to listen, then on went the cat-like tread from door to door.
Toinette’s and Cicely’s rooms communicated, and just beyond, with another communicating door, was the room occupied by Ruth and Edith, but the door was always fastened. Perhaps Miss Preston considered three communicating rooms altogether too convivial, and decided that “an ounce of prevention was always worth a pound of cure.”
As the stealthy footfalls passed on down the hall, a light tap fell upon Toinette’s door, and, springing out of bed, she flew to give a corresponding tap, and listen for what might follow.
“Sh-h!” came in a whisper from the other side.