"When I looked through the keyhole just now, there was something dark within that prevented me from seeing anything. That dark something—whatever it was—has vanished. I can now see nothing but a white surface."
The Baronet and my uncle, stooping down to the keyhole, satisfied themselves of the truth of the last part of my statement, and then both looked at me with a half-doubting expression.
"There is something white in front of the door now," said Sir Hugh. "Are you certain it was dark before?"
"Quite certain. There's some one inside."
"Can Angelo have come back?" the Baronet whispered. "You remember he said at breakfast that he might finish his picture within a few hours. Is he at work now?"
This idea made us look rather mean. It is not nice to be caught playing the spy upon a man in his supposed absence. Only the oaken door separated us from the cell within, so that the artist, if he were there, must have overheard our suspicions of him. We all three listened with our ears pressed close to the door, but could not detect the faintest sound within.
"Angelo, are you here?" cried the Baronet, rapping on the door; "we have come to see how the picture is going on."
There was no reply, and all our words and knockings failed to evoke any.
"You must have made a mistake, Frank," said my uncle, as we relinquished our efforts, and turned to go away.
"I think not," I replied, having my doubts on the matter nevertheless.