"Good heaven," he muttered, "where am I? Is it a barricade?"
His heart stood still for a second. Distinctly he heard the soft, suppressed cry of a woman—and then the unmistakable sound of scurrying fabrics. The sounds came from some remote corner of the room—or possibly from a room hard by—and were indicative of great alarm on the part of an unseen person.
Bosworth was not a slow thinker. He took the safest way. Without hesitation he called out: "It's all right! I am Bosworth Van Pycke!"
There was dead silence for the next sixty seconds. The French clock ticked them off. He involuntarily counted twenty-five or thirty before a small, hushed voice responded,—from the library, he was sure,—the voice of a woman.
"What did you say?"
"I am Mr. Van Pycke. Don't be alarmed. It's—it's all a mistake. I—"
"Mr. Van Pycke? Why—why—"
He recognized the voice.
"Is that you, Miss Downing?"
"Are you—are you sure that you are Mr. Van Pycke? I have my finger on the call button. Wha—what are you doing here?"