Before she had reached it, or her hand could touch the lock, a slow and gentle scratching on the window-pane arrested her, and she paused, fascinated, to understand it. Scratch—scratch—scratch—cr-ick! the tiny tinkle of falling glass.
Scratch—scratch—scratch—scratch—scratch—scratch! cr-ick—cr-ick! More glass falling, a crunching footstep, a soft tremor of the mahogany shutter!
Margaret essayed to wrench round the heavy lock of her door.
Her hand had no more strength than an infant's. She shuddered from head to foot.
One more desperate wrench!
A low snarl reached her ear! Eager paws beat at the bottom of her door!
She stood transfixed as the devil's cunning of her adversary dawned upon her mind.
The terrible sleuth-hound had been stationed outside her door, ready to tear her limb from limb when she should issue.