“Yes, yes, dear,” she said soothingly. “It simply shows that your dream was founded on fact. Come to bed.”
“No, no!” Cynthia was trembling violently, but she refused to leave the spot. “You forget that in my dream the door is always locked.”
“In this case it is not,” exclaimed Colonel Thornton, who, with Douglas, had rushed into the hall as soon as they had struggled into some clothes. Mrs. Truxton brought up the rear, her curl papers standing upright and her eyes almost popping from her head. “It’s simply used as a storeroom,” he added. “Don’t be so worried, Cynthia,” catching sight of her agonized face.
“I tell you it is not!” She stamped her foot in her excitement.
For answer Thornton stepped down the short hallway and turned the knob. To his intense surprise the door did not open.
“Ah!” Her cry was half in triumph, half in agony. “I told you it was locked. It must be opened—I shall go mad if it is not,” and her looks did not belie her statement.
Douglas joined Thornton as he stood hesitating. “I think it would be best to humor her,” he said in an undertone.
Thornton nodded in agreement. “I can’t understand how it got locked,” he muttered. “How the devil can I get it open? It is English quartered oak.”
“Is there any way of entering the room by a window?” asked Douglas.
“No, it’s too high from the ground, and there’s nothing but the bare brick wall to climb up; no tree grows near it,” said Thornton thoughtfully. “And unfortunately I have no ladder long enough to reach the window.”