wardrobe. Her terror had something in it of childish nightmare. Acting
as if under a spell of compulsion, she rose and tiptoed to the door. She
looked down the hall, and found it empty. The querulous voice of Mrs.
Mellows came to her, raised in complaint against hooked-behind dresses.
Like a lovely little ghost she flitted down the corridor to the library,
paused for an instant with a beating heart, and, entering, closed the
door with infinite precautions and shot the bolt.

She was panting as if from some painful exertion. Her hands were damp
and chill, her temples throbbed. The room seemed strange, close
shuttered and silent, as if it sheltered the silent, unresponsive dead.
The air was oppressive, and the light that filtered through the dim
blinds was vague and uncanny.

It was some moments before she felt herself under sufficient control to
cross by the big Jacobean table, and face the hooded fireplace--"to the
left, the second panel." She stared at it. To all appearances it was
reassuringly the same as all the others. Gently she pushed it right and
left, then up and down, but her pressure was so slight and nervous that
it did not stir the heavy wood. She breathed a great sigh of relief, and
beginning now to believe herself the victim of some cruel hoax, she
dared a firmer pressure. The panel responded--moved--slid slowly behind
its fellow--revealing the steel muzzle of a safe let into the solid
masonry. It seemed the result of some evil witchcraft; her blood
chilled. Yet, with renewed eagerness, she turned the combination. She
did not need to refer to the letter, she knew it by heart--the numbers
were seared there. The heavy door swung outward. Within she saw
well-remembered cases of velvet and morocco. This contained her mother's
diamond collar; that her lavallière; the emerald pendant was in the box
of ivory velvet; the earrings and the antique diamond rings in the