I waited till I thought she must have had time to reach the lane outside of “The Pines” gate, then I began painfully, slowly to creep into my clothes. Often I had to rest; several times I stopped to cry for pain. But I kept on, and at last I stood fully dressed before my mirror. My mouth was cut and torn; my face scratched; a raw patch on one cheek; the marks of the branch lay red across the base of my neck, and burned about my shoulders. The sight of my injuries and the pain of them, throbbing afresh with movement, inflamed my anger and my courage. I moved about the room several times, gradually limbering myself; then I went quietly out of my room and down the hall towards the kitchen stairs. It was then about ten o'clock. Mrs. Brane and Paul Dabney were probably in the drawing-room, quietly sipping their coffee; Mary would be upstairs preparing Mrs. Brane's bedroom for the night; Henry would have washed up his dishes and be gone upstairs to his room, unless he had received some further orders from the hidden mistress of the house. I had to take this risk. I stole down the kitchen stairs, and, opening the door a crack, I peeped into the kitchen. The lamp had been turned low, the fire was banked up for the night. A plate, with cup and fork and spoon, was laid out on the kitchen table, and on the back of the stove a frying-pan full of food was set to keep warm. What a gourmande Sara must think her leader whom she saw eating heartily enough at Mrs. Brane's table, but who insisted, besides, on a heavy meal at night! I thought I knew who would presently appear to enjoy her supper. She would fancy the kitchen door securely locked; she would fancy that I was successfully laid by the heels. I wondered what her plans for the night might be. I set my teeth hard to keep down the rage that mounted in me at the very thought of her. Sara had obediently placed my cloak and hat on one of the kitchen chairs. I decided that there was no time to waste. I slipped quickly into the room—I was in stocking feet—locked the kitchen door, hid the key in my pocket, put the note that I had dictated to Sara under the plate on the table, and then, stealing softly to the door of a narrow closet where Sara kept her brooms, I squeezed myself in and locked the door on the inside. When the key was removed, I put my eye to the large, worn keyhole, and had a clear but limited view of the dim, empty room. I knelt as comfortably as I could, for I knew that I should have to keep my position without the motion of a finger when the room should have an occupant. My heart beat heavily and loudly, my hurts throbbed at every beat. It was a painful, a well-nigh unbearable half-hour that I spent cramped there in the closet, waiting, waiting, waiting.... At last—such a long last—there came the ghostly sound of a step.
It drew nearer; I heard a faint noise of shifting boards, the door of the low closet under the stairs opened, and out stepped the hideous image of myself. The shock of that resemblance almost sent me off into a faint. I had seen the creature only once face to face; now, in the dim light of the kitchen lamp, I studied her features. Disfigured by passion and guilt, it was nevertheless my face. This woman was older, certainly, by many years, but a touch of paint and powder, the radiance of moonlight, might easily disguise the lines and shadows. She was as slender as a girl, and a clever actress could simulate a look of innocence. I almost forgave Paul Dabney as I watched this other “Me” move about the kitchen on her noiseless feet.
She went to the stove, took up the frying-pan, and carried it over to the table. On the way she noticed my cloak and hat and stopped, evidently startled, holding the pan in her hands. She glanced nervously about the room, went over to the door that was at the foot of the stairs and tried it. I was thankful that I had taken the precaution of locking it. I hoped she would not notice that the key was gone. She returned to the table and sat down before the plate. Then she saw the note and snatched it up. She bent her fiery head, arranged so carefully in imitation of mine, over the writing. I saw her lips move. She looked up frowning, uncertain, surprised. Then she walked over to the stove, thrust Sara's note into the fire, returned, and stood in deep thought in the middle of the room. I was sick with suspense. Clouds passed over my eyes. Would she fall into my clumsy trap? Presently she walked slowly over to my cloak and hat and put them on. With the hat pressing her soft hair down about her face, she was so terribly like me that my uncanny fears returned. She must be some spirit clothed in my aura, possessing herself in some infernal fashion of my outward semblance. A cold sweat had broken out over me. I felt it run down my temples.
Another long minute she stood there, debating with herself; then she looked at the clock, made use of her ghastly smile, and stepped quietly across the kitchen and out into the night. I waited—a fortunate precaution—for she came back five minutes later and peered about. There was nothing to alarm her since she could not hear the pounding of my heart. She decided to follow the instructions, and again disappeared. I waited another fifteen minutes, then, cold with fear and excitement, I came out of my hiding-place. I glided over to the door, and looked out. It was a dark and cloudy night. I could hear the swinging and rustling of the trees. There was no other sound, nor could I see anything astir in the little garden except the gate which was ajar and creaking faintly on its hinges. She had gone.
I came back hastily into the kitchen and lighted a candle which was stuck into a tin candlestick on a shelf. I looked at the clock. It was now half-past ten. In half an hour the woman would reach the bridge. She would wait for Maida, perhaps an hour, perhaps not so long; after that, she would be suspicious and return. I had therefore not more than an hour, with any certainty, to follow the directions I had memorized; to rifle the hoard, and to make my escape from the thief's hiding-place. Then I would telephone to the Pine Cone police.
I opened the door of the low closet under the stairs.
CHAPTER XV—THE SECRET OF THE KITCHEN CLOSET
I LIGHTED my candle and stepped into the closet, shutting the door behind me. The small space, no longer cluttered by old odds and ends of gardening tools, was clear to my eyes in every corner, and presented so commonplace an appearance that I was almost ready to believe that nightmares had possessed me lately, and that an especially vivid one had brought me to stand absurdly here in the sleeping house peering at an innocent board wall. Nevertheless, I set down my candle on the floor and attacked the boards put up by Henry with what skill and energy I could.