"And can you get into the bedroom from this hiding-place?"
"The picture of St. George is on hinges, and can be opened like a door."
"So that you can at any time enter Timéa's room from that passage?" asked Michael, with an uncontrollable shudder.
Athalie smiled proudly. "I never needed to creep in to her by secret routes. Timéa sleeps with open doors, and you know that I can always pass freely through her room. She sleeps so soundly too."
"Give me the key."
Athalie took the puzzle key from her pocket. The lower end was shaped like a screw, only on pressing the handle a key appeared. She showed Timar how to manage it. A voice in his heart—perhaps that of his guardian angel—whispered to Timar to throw this key into the deep well in the yard. But he took no heed of the voice; he only listened to Athalie's whisper in his ear.
"If you leave home to-morrow and come back at the signal, go straight to the hiding-place, and you will learn all you want to know. Will you come?"
"I shall be there."
"Do you generally carry arms?—a pistol or a dagger?—one can never tell what may happen. The picture of St. George opens to the right when you press on a button-shaped handle, and when open it just covers Timéa's bed. Do you understand?"
She pressed Michael's hand violently, looking with flaming eyes of rage into his, and added something, but not audibly. Only her lips moved, her teeth chattered, and her eyes rolled—they were soundless words. What could she have said? Timar stared in a dazed way like a sleep-walker, then suddenly raised his head to ask Athalie something. He was alone—only the key grasped in his hand showed that it was no dream.