To her left was a door. Quite probably it was locked; but then, by the favour of fortune, it might not be. Of course she ran a risk, a considerable risk of meeting some caretaker or other, and her presence would not be particularly easy to explain. Curiosity and prudence wavered momentarily in the balance. Curiosity turned the scale. She tried the door. Vastly to her delight it yielded at her push. She slipped inside the house, closing it softly behind her.
She found herself in a long carpeted passage, sporting prints adorning the walls. She tip-toed down it, her step making no smallest sound on the soft carpet. The end of the passage brought her into a big square hall. To her right were wide deep stairs; opposite them was a door, in all probability the front door; to her left was another door.
Trix recalled the past, rapidly, and in detail. The door to the left must lead to the library,—that is, if her memory did not play her false. She remembered the big room, the book-cases reaching from floor to ceiling, and the man with the black eyes, who had terrified her. Something, some fleeting shadow, of her old childish fear was upon her now, as she turned the door handle. The door yielded easily. She pushed it wide open.
The room was shadowed, gloomy almost. The heavy curtains were drawn back from the windows, but other curtains of some thinnish green material hung before them, curtains which effectually blotted out any view from the window, or view into the room from without. Before her were the old remembered book-cases, filled with dark, rather fusty books.
Trix pushed the door to behind her, and turned, nonchalantly, to look around the room. As she looked her heart jumped, leapt, and then stood still.
CHAPTER XXII
AN OLD MAN IN A LIBRARY
A white-haired man was watching her. He was sitting in a big oak chair, his hands resting on the arms.