The glass doors were open. A few old, mildewed books stood on the shelves. They might form a nucleus of the memorial library, but Alice Lorraine sighed. For the nonce she had forgotten that Dick Cartwright was dead. Half mechanically she pulled out one of the little drawers below. A pile of letters met her view. The uppermost bore a superscription. Either dusk or faded ink made it very faint, but the girl read it—Mr. Richard Cartwright, Farleigh. They seemed to her the saddest words she had ever read.
Forgetting everything else, the girl sat by the desk while the shadows in the corners increased, encroaching more and more upon her island of twilight. Then on a sudden, strange, nameless terror seized upon her. She felt as she had once or twice felt in the night upon awaking without apparent cause from sound sleep. Her hair seemed to rise from her head and cold drops stood out on her brow and lips.
There was someone else in the room! For some seconds the girl sat motionless, fearing to stir, to draw breath. Then she turned her head ever so slightly and cautiously to see how near she was to the stair. Two steps would bring her thither. She gazed as in fascination upon the space for some moments, then slowly, breathlessly turned her head in the opposite direction.
Nothing met her gaze and she grew bolder—or at least less fearful. Turning about in the chair, though noiselessly, she surveyed the room. There was nothing to be seen. She peered in every direction. The corners were dark but not suspiciously so. It seemed as if there were something odd about the look of the couch, but she could reach the stairway, rush down and be out of the door before anyone or anything could reach her thence. She rose softly to her feet.
For a little she stood still. Then she tiptoed quietly towards the dark bench or couch beneath the rafters, peering before her all the while. Suddenly she paused.
Her horror-stricken eyes made out the outlines of a dark figure on the couch, an human being, a man who looked to her frightened gaze of giant size. His eyes were closed. He was asleep—or dead?
Alice Lorraine stood still trying to think. If the man were asleep, he was a drunken tramp and she must flee. If he were dead—O, so much more must she fly! Not for the world would she be alone with a dead man, a corpse. She must——
On a sudden the figure moved. The man’s eyes opened wide.
CHAPTER VIII
BEFORE the man on the old couch realized the actuality of the situation and sprang to his feet, his bewildered, incredulous eyes took in perforce the vision of a tall, graceful young girl with dark bands of hair wound about her small head and dark brows and eyes conspicuous in the dusk because of the pallor of her face. But pale as she was, and weak and faint and confused, Alice Lorraine’s fear took flight almost immediately. The first movement of the unknown man startled only to reassure her. He sprang to his feet, but only to shrink back into the corner as if to allow her to fly if she would.