“Foolish child! Why do you stand and watch the rude fellows? This is what you get by it. I have told you to keep your eyes within.”
“But I love to see them, so droll they are.”
Stealthily the fantastic creatures began to climb the stairs, one, two, three flights, traversing a long hall at the end of each flight and turning to climb again. The expense of keeping a light on each floor for the corridors was not allowed in this building, and they moved along in the darkness, but for the flickering light of the few candles carried among them. As they neared the top they grew more stealthy and kept close together on the landing outside the studio door. One stooped and listened at the keyhole, then tried to look through it. “Not there?” whispered another.
“No light,” was the whispered reply. They spoke now in French, now in English.
“He has heard us and hid himself. He is a strange man, this Scotchman. He did not attend the ‘Vernissage,’ nor the presentation of prizes, yet he wins the highest.” The owl stretched out an arm, bare and muscular, from under his wing and tried the door very gently. It was not locked, and he thrust his head within, then reached back and took a candle from the ghost. “This will give light enough. Put out the rest of yours and make no noise.”
Thus in the darkness they crept into the studio and gathered around the table. There they saw the unopened envelopes.
“He is not here. He does not know,” said one and another.
“Where then can he be?”
“He has taken a panic and fled. I told you so,” said the ghost.