The dread significance of this revelation chilled us all into silence. After a moment a choked whistle escaped Heath; and Markham threw back his head like a man shaking himself out of an encroaching spell of hypnosis. It was Vance who first recovered himself sufficiently to speak.
“Your mother was near the library door?”
“Yes; and it seemed as though she held a key in her hand.”
“Was she carrying anything else?” Vance’s effort at calmness was only half successful.
“I didn’t notice—I was too terrified.”
“Could she, for instance, have been carrying a pair of galoshes?” he persisted.
“She might have been. I don’t know. She had on her long Oriental shawl, and it fell down about her in folds. Maybe under the shawl. . . . Or she might have put them down when she struck the match. I only know I saw her—moving slowly . . . there in the darkness.”
The memory of that unbelievable vision completely took possession of the girl. Her eyes stared, trance-like, into the deepening shadows.
Markham cleared his throat nervously.
“You say yourself it was dark in the hall last night, Miss Greene. Perhaps your fears got the better of you. Are you sure it might not have been Hemming or the cook?”