'Mademoiselle,' ventured Simone, 'you must be ready, you know. The letter will doubtless be sealed. I have heard that a hot knife, run under the seal, will ease it without breaking it. You will find a knife in the kitchen, and the logs are alight. I saw the glow from the passage.'
Marion shivered slightly. ''Tis a foul thing that I set myself to do, but I must know. I must know. Quick, Simone! Take off my shoes. Stockings make no sound.'
A minute later Marion crept stealthily downstairs. Mine host and the traveller were talking over their wine, their heads dark against the sunset light which fell slanting through the latticed window.
From the crack of the door, as she stole by, Marion caught a glimpse of the two figures, the smoke rising from their pipes. How long would they stay thus?
Noiselessly she crept along the passage in the direction whence she had seen the servant girl come with dishes for supper. A glow from some interior warmth lay across the passage stones, the same light that Simone had noted. With a quick backward glance Marion turned in at the open kitchen door.
A fire of logs burned in the huge chimney place, casting gleams on the brass cooking utensils hanging on the chimney breast. On the table stood various dishes and jugs. Rapidly Marion looked about for a knife. Would she, she thought with a sudden tremor, be obliged to open a drawer? Neither on the dresser nor on the table was a knife to be seen.
She tiptoed across the room to an open door. Beyond lay the inn yard and the stables. The exit was clear. So far so good; but the knife?
Another door just on the latch stood in the opposite wall. Peeping in, Marion saw the place she sought: the 'wash-up.' A pile of knives and forks stood on a side bench, clean from supper, but evidently awaiting scouring. Hastily she selected the one with the slenderest blade.
As she turned to go back into the kitchen, her foot caught in the slanting leg of a rough stool just inside the little room. It jerked on the stones. Marion stood still, her heart thumping so loudly that she felt that the men whose voices came dimly down the passage must be hearing its beat where they sat. Something moved overhead. In an agony of fear Marion waited. Should she get out of the kitchen at once before those steps came downstairs? Better anything than be caught indoors in this fashion. For close on a minute she stood, the throbbing pulse in her brow measuring out the seconds.
The sounds did not recur. She crept towards the fireplace. With her ears straining for any sound she plunged the knife into the glowing embers, and took her handkerchief to protect her hand from any heat which the handle might catch. Not until the blade was red did she allow herself to withdraw the knife.