"I was frightened and I didn't know what to do. Mrs. Atterbury had told me not to venture downstairs late at night for Welch might mistake me for a burglar and injure me, but I did not want to disturb her unnecessarily and I thought I had better investigate.
"I lighted my candle and crept downstairs. There was a funny sweetish odor on the air and I traced it to this door. When I looked in I saw Mr. Wolvert lying there and all the room upset, but no sign of anyone else. I ran to him and was kneeling beside him, trying to feel if his heart was still beating, when Welch stumbled into the room and accused me. Oh, have the burglars killed him?"
It was superb acting but the girl was wrought up to such an emotional pitch that she was scarcely conscious of its effect. She lived in her vivid imagination each phase of the story she was narrating and it bore the impress of truth.
The rest looked at one another, reading in each face the belief which confirmed their own. It was Madame Cimmino, however, who broke the silence crying out in a paroxysm of jealous fury:
"What is it to you if he lives or dies? He is not yours, but mine! My husband!"
"Betty." Mrs. Atterbury spoke for the first time and her tones were dull and lifeless as she wrenched her eyes with an almost visible effort from the rifled safe. "You had better go to your room, if you are not afraid of being alone. You might try to revive Caroline if you will; she is lying ill in the hall upstairs. Cook is a heavy sleeper, but should she awaken and attempt to come down, please detain her; we must have no more excitement."
Betty accepted her dismissal with a swift leap of her heart. Her task was accomplished; there remained only to make her escape and the way seemed clear before her.
"I am not afraid, Mrs. Atterbury," she said quietly. "If you need me, please call."
She slipped up the stairs and past the still unconscious form of Caroline with feet that trod on air. To throw on her cloak and boots and steal out the kitchen door by which she had entered only a few short hours before would be a simple matter and the man who loved her would be waiting, on guard.
Removing her felt slippers, she had picked up her shoes, when an imperative rap on her locked door made her drop them hastily, her spirit sinking in a premonition of further trouble.