She sprang to her feet with a sharp cry of alarm.
"Heavens! I—I forgot about that! There is a secret panel and—heaven save us!—it opens directly into my bedroom!" Her eyes were very wide and full of consternation. She gripped my arm. "Come! Be quick! We must pile something heavy against it, or nail it up, or—do something."
She fairly dragged me out into the corridor, and then, picking up her dainty skirts, pattered down the rickety stairs at so swift a pace that I had some difficulty in keeping her pink figure in sight. Why is it that a woman can go downstairs so much faster than a man? I've never been able to explain it. She didn't stumble once, or miss a step, while I did all manner of clumsy things, and once came near to pitching headlong to the bottom. We went down and down and round and round so endlessly that I was not only gasping but reeling.
At last we came to the broad hall at the top of the main staircase. Almost directly in front of us loomed the great padlocked doors leading to the other wing. Passing them like the wind she led the way to the farthermost end of the hall. Light from the big, paneless windows overlooking the river, came streaming into the vast corridor, and I could see doors ahead to the right and the left of us.
"Your bedroom?" I managed to gasp, uttering a belated question that should have been asked five or six flights higher up at a time when I was better qualified to voice it. "What the dickens is it doing down here?"
She did not reply, but, turning to the left, threw open a door and disappeared into the room beyond. I followed ruthlessly, but stopped just over the threshold to catch my breath in astonishment.
I was in "my lady's bed-chamber."
The immense Gothic bed stood on its dais, imposing in its isolation. Three or four very modern innovation trunks loomed like minarets against the opposite walls, half-open; one's imagination might have been excused if it conjured up sentries who stood ready to pop out of the trunks to scare one half to death. Some of my most precious rugs adorned the floor, but the windows were absolutely undraped. There were a few old chairs scattered about, but no other article of furniture except an improvised wash-stand, and a clumsy, portable tin bath-tub which leaned nonchalantly against the foot of the bed. There were great mirrors, in the wall at one end of the room, cracked and scaly it is true, but capable of reflecting one's presence.
"Don't stand there gaping," she cried in a shrill whisper, starting across the room only to turn aside with a sharp exclamation. "That stupid Helene!" she cried, flushing warmly. Catching up a heap of tumbled garments, mostly white, from a chair, she recklessly hurled them behind the bed. "This is the mirror—the middle one. It opens by means of a spring. There is a small hole in the wall behind it and then there is still another secret door beyond that, a thick iron one with the sixth Baron Rothhoefen's portrait on the outer side of it. The canvas swings open. We must—"
I was beginning to get my bearings.