"But there's another room there," Ellen said, pointing to a door just before them—a heavy clumsily-made door, painted black.
"That room—well, yes; it's a kind of a room, but hasn't been used for fifty years and more, I've heard say. Stephen keeps seeds there and such-like. It's always locked, and he keeps the key of it."
There was nothing in this closed room to excite either curiosity or interest in Ellen's mind, and she was turning away from the door with perfect indifference, when she started and suddenly seized Mrs. Tadman's arm.
"Hark!" she said, in a frightened, breathless way; "did you hear that?"
"What, child?"
"Did you say there was no one in there—no one?"
"Lord bless your heart, no, Miss Carley, nor ever is. What a turn you did give me, grasping hold of my arm like that!"
"I heard something in there—a footstep. It must be the servant."
"What, Martha Holden! I should like to see her venturing into any room Stephen keeps private to himself. Besides, that door's kept locked; try it, and satisfy yourself."
The door was indeed locked—a door with a clumsy old-fashioned latch, securely fastened by a staple and padlock. Ellen tried it with her own hand.