The scene of chaos that met her gaze defies description. The room had been completely and most effectively "stacked." Strewn about the floor were papers. The inverted waste-basket was cocked rakishly upon an arm of the chandelier. Books from the rack were lying everywhere. The rack lay flat on the floor. The face of every hanging picture was turned to the wall, and the Morris chair, which had been carefully taken apart, was piled upon the writing table. Mrs. Turner at a single sweep of her eye noted these details and also certain splotches that were unmistakably ink spots on the walls and on the carpet.
The divan had reared itself and now stood upon one end. Three chairs were piled upon the bed.
These Mrs. Turner noted last.
She understood the meaning of the chaos. Someone, during his absence, had entered Mr. Catherwood's room and "stacked" it. And as she calculated the time necessary to complete a restoration of its usual neat appearance, the poor woman sighed deeply.
Suddenly she started.
Was it an echo of her sigh she heard? Surely she had heard a human sound. She peered, stooping.
"Mr. Catherwood!" she called; her face pale.
A distinct, graveyard moan was the answer.
The blood fled from Mrs. Turner's lips and her eyes bulged. She cautiously approached the bed, whence, seemingly, had come the moan. She peered between the legs of the chairs. Then, with a cry that rang through the house, she fled from the room, down the stairs and into the freezing out-of-doors.
As she ran down the walk, slipping, stumbling, the bells in the library tower rang out twice, musically clear on the frosty air—fifteen minutes past twelve. And approaching, she saw her neighbor, the assistant professor of history, returning from the examination.