We lunched rather soberly: the children were repressed by their mother’s grim face, and ate as quickly as possible, so that they might escape from the table. Mrs. McNab seemed lost in thought; she let her cutlet go away almost untasted, sitting with her fingers keeping a soft drumming on the tablecloth, and her brow knitted. I wondered whether the burglar-scare were troubling her, or if it were merely the perennial worry of her work: and wished I could escape as quickly as Judy and Jack, whose gay young voices could be heard in the shrubbery long before their mother rose from the table. She walked to the window and stood looking out for a moment. Then she turned to me.
“I hope you are not alarmed by this burglary,” she said. “I really do not think we are likely to have trouble here.”
“Then you shouldn’t look as if you did,” I thought; but prudently forbore to put my thought into words. Aloud, I said I didn’t think I was likely to be nervous. Then I wondered was I right to keep silent about the movements I had heard.
“I think I ought to tell you that I have noticed unusual sounds several times at night,” I began. I got no further, for my employer took a quick step forward, her face changing.
“What is that? What did you hear?”
“There have been rustlings and movements in the shrubbery below my window,” I said. “Quite a number of times; and more than once I have heard steps on the gravel, sounding as though some one were trying to walk as noiselessly as possible.”
She drew a long breath.
“Did you see anything?”
“Yes—just glimpses of a dark figure. But with so many in the house it seemed foolish to worry: anyone might have gone there for a stroll. I did feel as if some one were prowling for no good; but then, I know one is apt to fancy things, especially at night. Still, I thought I ought to tell you.”
Mrs. McNab looked relieved.