She turned out the light and threw open the window. She felt relieved to find that it was only the leaves that were tapping against the window-pane. She closed the window, with a sigh, and opened the door softly.
The corridor was empty; the gas-jets of the great chandelier were turned low. Like a thief in the night, she stole noiselessly down the winding passageway.
The sound of laughter from the servants' hall below floated up to her through the awful stillness.
What if one of the doors on either side should open, and some one step out and confront her?
She drew her long cloak closely about her, and pulled the hood down over her head.
There was a side door opening on to a porch, and leading directly into the grounds.
Ida hurried toward this door and opened it cautiously. For a moment she stood on the threshold, and in that moment a gust of wind blew the cloak from about her shoulders, and it fell at her feet.
The light from the hall lamp clearly revealed her form to Eugene Mallard, who stood leaning against an oak-tree scarcely one hundred feet distant.
"It is Ida!" he muttered, hoarsely.
She turned her steps down toward the brook, as he had feared she would do.