"I wasn't so awfully frightened when I saw Mr. Zzyx peeping out at me," she said, "or I would have gone straight into Aunt Jane's apartment, the safest place in the castle. I had become so accustomed to Mr. Zzyx's antics—he's just as playful as a child—I saw no reason why I should become unduly alarmed. So I settled down, and read my novel until about midnight. I went to sleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow.
"I don't know how long I'd been asleep when something aroused me. It was a sound outside my bedroom door. I switched on the lights, slid out of bed, caught up my dressing-gown and went to the door and listened. I distinctly heard a scratching noise outside my door—a sound my pet poodle makes when it wants to come into my room. Then I saw the brass knob, inside my door, moving, and I got the impression that some one was pressing his full weight against the door. Well, I was just too scared to scream, so I started hammering on the door.
"Then I listened again, by placing my ear close against the door. I'm sure I heard a stealthy movement outside, a soft, cat's-foot movement, as though some one was moving away, down the hall; then everything became quiet. Finally, I became more composed myself, and finding that I had not aroused anyone by hammering on the door, I went back to bed. But I never closed my eyes again that night."
When Pat recounted her adventure the next morning at breakfast, Henry was inclined to dismiss it as trivial. "My dear, you had a nightmare," he said. "Who on earth would want to get into your apartment at that hour of the night? As for Mr. Zzyx, why, he wouldn't hurt a fly."
Jane was stunned by Pat's story, and immediately added another bolt to her bedroom door. For myself, I had heard no sound during the night, and I'm a very light sleeper, and easy to waken. I felt, like Henry, that perhaps Pat may have dreamed it.
At least, that was my opinion, until shortly after breakfast, while examining the outside of her bedroom door, I found several distinct marks, where the paint had been scratched, or clawed, off. Discovering these marks, I felt it was not a nightmare of Pat's. So I questioned Niki.
"You don't think it could have been Mr. Zzyx at Pat's door?" I asked him.
Niki looked startled, then he grinned, and established a complete alibi for our guest. "No," he said. "Mr. Zzyx never left his room last night."
I left him, my mind confused in many ways, but entirely clear on one point. There was something at Pat's door, that was sure.
Jane was naturally upset and uncomfortable the first night Mr. Zzyx dined formally with us. We were both dressed for dinner, and waiting in the entrance hall for the others to come down. She had just been telling me of her resolve not to close the castle on November first, and open our town house, a custom we had rigidly followed for so many years, when she happened to glance up the grand staircase. Clutching my arm suddenly, she whispered: "My God, Livingston! Look!"