Then, hurriedly buttoning her jacket and pinning on her hat, she took from her trunk the package which she had made up an hour before, stole softly from her room and down the back stairs to the area hall.
The outer door was closed and bolted—the gas-man having long since finished his errand and departed—and she could hear the cook and one of the maids conversing in the kitchen just across the hall.
Evidently no one had attempted to go upstairs since Giulia's entrance, consequently the key had not yet been missed nor the door discovered to be unlocked.
Cautiously slipping the bolt to the street door, Edith quickly passed out, closing it noiselessly after her.
Another moment she was in the street, speeding with swift, light steps across the park.
Then, bending her course through Dartmouth street, she came to a narrow, crooked way called Buckingham street, which led her directly out upon Columbus avenue, when, turning to the left, she soon came to the station known by the same name.
Here she had ten minutes to wait, after purchasing her ticket, and the uneasiness with which she watched the slowly moving hands upon the clock in the gloomy waiting-room may be imagined.
Her waiting was over at last, and, exactly on time, the train came thundering to the station.
Edith quickly boarded it, then sank weak and trembling upon the nearest empty seat, her heart beating so rapidly that she panted with every breath.
Then the train began to move, and, with a prayer of thankfulness over her escape, the excited girl leaned back against the cushion and gave herself up to rest, knowing that she could not now be overtaken before arriving in New York.