Now, too, he saw a thread of light showing beneath
a door at a little distance, and when he crept up to it and listened
he could hear for certain that it was from within this room that
there came the sound of muffled, passionate weeping.
The door was closed, but he turned the handle so carefully that he
made not the least sound and very cautiously he began to push the
door back, the tiniest fraction of an inch at a time, so that even
one watching closely could never have said that it moved.
When, after a long time, during which the muffled weeping never
ceased, he had it open an inch or two, he leaned forward and peeped
within.
It was a bed-chamber, and, crouching on the floor near the fireplace,
in front of a low arm-chair, her head hidden on her arms and resting
on the seat of the chair, was the figure of a girl. She had made no
preparations for retiring, and by the frock she wore Dunn recognized
her as the girl he had seen on the veranda bidding good-bye to John
Clive.
The sound of her weeping was very pitiful, her attitude was full of
an utter and poignant despair, there was something touching in the
extreme in the utter abandonment to grief shown by this young and
lovely creature who seemed framed only for joy and laughter.
The stern features and hard eyes of the unseen watcher softened,
then all at once they grew like tempered steel again.
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