He had not been in it since the night of his arrival at Bittermeads,
but it appeared to him extraordinarily familiar and every little
object in it of ornament or use seemed to speak to him softly of
Ella's gracious presence.
Of Ella herself there was no sign, but he noticed that the tassel
at the end of the window blind cord was moving as if recently
disturbed.
The movement was very slight, almost imperceptible, indeed, but it
existed; and it proved that some one must very shortly before have
been standing at the window. He moved to it and looked out.
The view commanded the road by which he had approached Bittermeads,
and he wondered if Ella had been standing there and had seen his
approach, and then had concealed herself for some reason.
But, if so, why and where was she hiding? And where was Deede
Dawson? And why was everything so silent and so still?
He turned from the window, and as he did so he caught a faint sound
in the passage without.
Instantly he crouched behind the bed, the heavy glass inkpot that
was his one weapon poised in his hand.
The sound did not come again, but as he waited, he saw the door
begin to open very slowly, very quietly.
Lower still he crouched, the inkpot ready to throw, every nerve taut
and tense for the leap at his foe's throat with which he meant to
follow it up. The door opened a little more, very slowly, very
carefully.
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