“They seem silly,” said the spinster, a dazed look in the dull eyes. “I’ve tried to give a meaning to them, but never could. For example, she’ll often, of an evening, ask me to go to a window and pretend to be interested in the direction of the wind. And she makes me promise not to tell.”
“Jove!” said Mr. Scanlon.
“Then she has a way of jesting about my playing of the harp, and of other things which seem to be odd in tone and in meaning. I’ve never been able to understand them.”
Scanlon nodded; he could readily see this as the things had made the same impression upon himself. Then, guardedly, he began to speak. Little by little he told Miss Hohenlo of the numerous things which had attracted his attention to Miss Knowles since his arrival at Schwartzberg. And when he had done, she stood staring at him like a small scared animal.
“It’s dreadful!” she said. “Who would ever have dreamed of such a thing?”
From the courtyard there came a dull complaining sound.
“Hello,” said Scanlon, in surprise; “what’s that?”
“It’s the gate,” spoke Miss Hohenlo. “Some one is opening it.”
The night, though the month was November, was an exceedingly mild one, and the windows were partly open. Through one of these they looked down into the courtyard. Kretz was at the gate drawing the bolts, and beside him stood Miss Knowles, a long, muffling wrap hanging to her feet.
“She is going out,” breathed Miss Hohenlo.