[CHAPTER XXVI.]
It was not a pleasant contemplation, that of facing the dreary, desolate house where her experiences of that evening had been so frightful, and it was with a shiver of horror that Leonie turned from the door which she had closed upon herself.
She stood for a moment irresolutely, her womanly cowardice fighting with her strong desire to gain possession of the papers that she believed the house to contain, feeling that if she left it until the morrow that the opportunity might be forever lost; yet it was a hard fight.
She was but a girl, weak of courage when she had time in which to think of fear, and the occurrences of the evening were not calculated to eradicate nervousness, yet with a determination that was singularly strong, she put fear from her and walked up the stairs.
All about her was in utter darkness, save for a ray of light that seemed to creep disconsolately through the window by which she had made her escape.
She looked at it with a shudder, remembering the terrible tragedy that had followed her exit through it, but not daring to give herself time for reflection, she began a search for matches.
She knew where the candle had stood at the time the pistol put it out, and groping her way through the gloom she succeeded in finding it.
There were a few matches upon the waiter of the holder. The pale gleam cast a fitful glow over the room that was uncanny. By it the objects appeared ghostly, and she drew back with a low cry of fright as her foot struck the straw of which Dick's bed had been composed.
She smiled at her own timidity when she saw what it really was, but her courage was of that watery character that threatened to desert her at each moment.