She groped her way round, till she came to a side path leading to an entrance. The path indeed was that by which Faversham had been originally carried into the Tower, across the foot-bridge. Peering over a low wall that bounded the path, she looked startled into an abyss of leafless trees, with a bright gleam of moonlit water far below. In front of her was a door and steps, and some rays of light penetrating through the shuttered windows beside the door, showed that there was life within.
Felicia mounted the steps and knocked. No one came. At last she found a bell and rang it—cautiously. Steps approached. The door was opened, and a gray-haired woman stood on the threshold.
"Well, what's your business?" she said sharply. It was evident that she was short-sighted, and did not clearly see the person outside.
"Please, I want to speak to Mr. Melrose."
The clear, low voice arrested the old woman.
"Eh?" she said testily. "And who may you be? You cawn't see Mr. Melrose, anyways."
"I want to see him particularly. Are you Mrs. Dixon?"
"Aye—a'am Mrs. Dixon. But aa've no time to goa chatterin' at doors wi' yoong women; soa if yo'll juist gie me yor business, I'll tell Muster Faversham, when he's got time to see to 't."
"It's not Mr. Faversham I want to see—it's Mr. Melrose. Mrs. Dixon, don't you remember me?"
Mrs. Dixon stepped back in puzzled annoyance, so as to let a light from the passage shine upon the stranger's face. She stood motionless.