It was a hard fight, but he had read of a sudden awakening under such conditions proving dangerous.
As he listened there was a faint rustling as the soft grey peignoir he knew so well passed over the thick carpet towards the door; and if the listener had any doubt, it was set aside by the light pat that he heard—it was a hand touching the panel.
Capel waited a minute, during which he heard the dress sweep against the edge of the door, and then the sound was quite hushed.
He knew what that meant, too; the door had been drawn to, and so he found it as he stepped lightly there, opened it, and passed out on to the great landing, where he strained his eyes upward to try and make out the graceful draped figure as it went up the winding staircase to the bedroom.
It was not so dark there, for a faint gloom—it could not be called light—fell from the great ground-glass sky-light, at the top of the winding staircase, like so much diluted darkness being poured down into a well.
That great winding staircase suddenly seemed to him full of horror, as he stood there. It had never struck him before, but now, how terrible it seemed. That balustrade was so low. Suppose, poor girl, in her sleep, she should lean over it, and fall down onto the white stones, where the black fretwork of the glistening stove could be seen like a square patch against the white slabs.
There was no reason for such fancies, but Paul Capel’s hands grew wet with a cold perspiration.
“I ought to have stopped her, and awakened her at any risk,” he said, as he still gazed up the great staircase; and then his heart seemed to stand still, for there was a faint click, as of a lock shot back, and it came either from on a level with where he stood, or from down below.
In an instant he realised what had happened: Katrine had been to fetch the key of the late Colonel’s chamber, and had gone in there.
He hesitated a moment, and then, going close, he softly touched the door, and felt it yield.