And then as she stood bewildered, there came from behind the padded door a squeal of agony, so shrill, so full of pain, that her blood seemed to turn to ice.
Again it shrieked, and turning she fled back the way she had come, through the hall to the front door. Her trembling fingers fumbled at the key and presently the lock snapped and the door flew open. She staggered out on to the broad steps of the house and stopped, for a man was sitting on the head of those steps.
He turned his face as the door opened, and in the light from the hall he was revealed. It was Jim Steele!
V
Jim came stumbling to his feet, staring in blank amazement at the unexpected apparition, and for a moment thus they stood, facing one another, the girl stricken dumb with fear and surprise.
She thought he was part of a dreadful dream, an image that was conjured by her imagination and would presently vanish.
“Jim—Mr. Steele!” she gasped.
In a stride he was by her side, his arm about her shoulders.
“What is wrong?” he asked quickly, and in his anxiety his voice was almost harsh.
She shuddered and dropped her face on his breast.
“Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful!” she whispered, and he heard the note of horror in her low voice.
“May I ask what is the meaning of this?” demanded a suave voice, and with a start the girl turned.
A man was standing in the doorway and for a second she did not recognize him. Even Jim, who had seen Digby Groat at close quarters, did not know him in his unusual attire. He was dressed in a long white overall which reached from his throat to his feet; over his head was a white cap which fitted him so that not a particle of his hair could be seen. Bands of white elastic held his cuffs close to his wrists and both hands were hidden in brown rubber gloves.
“May I again ask you, Miss Weldon, why you are standing on my doorstep in the middle of the night, attired in clothes which I do not think are quite suitable for street wear? Perhaps you will come inside and explain,” he said, stepping back. “Grosvenor Square is not quite used to this form of midnight entertainment.”
Still clutching Jim’s arm, the girl went slowly back to the passage and Digby shut the door.
“And Mr. Steele, too,” said Digby with ironic surprise, “you’re a very early caller.”
Jim said nothing. His attention was wholly devoted to the girl. She was trembling from head to foot, and he found a chair for her.
“There are a few explanations due,” he said coolly, “but I rather think they are from you, Mr. Groat.”
“From me?” Mr. Groat was genuinely unprepared for that demand.
“So far as my presence is concerned, that can be explained in a minute,” said Jim. “I was outside the house a few moments ago when the door swung open and Miss Weldon ran out in a state of abject terror. Perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Groat, why this lady is reduced to such a condition?”
There was a cold menace in his tone which Digby Groat did not like to hear.
“I have not the slightest idea what it is all about,” he said. “I have been working in my laboratory for the last half-hour, and the first intimation I had that anything was wrong was when I heard the door open.”
The girl had recovered now, and some of the colour had returned to her face, yet her voice shook as she recited the incidents of the night, both men listening attentively.
Jim took particular notice of the man’s attitude, and he was satisfied in his mind that Digby Groat was as much in ignorance of the visit to the girl’s room as he himself. When she had finished, Groat nodded.
“The terrifying cry you heard from my laboratory,” he smiled, “is easily explained. Nobody was being hurt; at least, if he was being hurt, it was for his own good. When I came back to my house tonight, I found my little dog had a piece of glass in its paw, and I was extracting it.”
She drew a sigh of relief.
“I’m so sorry I made such a fuss,” she said penitently, “but I—I was frightened.”
“You are sure somebody was in your room?” asked Digby.
“Absolutely certain.” She had not told him about the card.
“They came through the French window from the balcony?”
She nodded.
“May I see your room?”
She hesitated for a moment.
“I will go in first to tidy it,” she said. She remembered the card was on the bed, and she was particularly anxious that it should not be read.
Uninvited Jim Steele followed Digby upstairs into the beautiful room. The magnificence of the room, its hangings and costly furniture, did not fail to impress him, but the impression he received was not favourable to Digby Groat.
“Yes, the window is ajar. You are sure you fastened it?”
The girl nodded.
“Yes. I left both fanlights down to get the air,” she pointed above, “but I fastened these doors. I distinctly remember that.”
“But if this person came in from the balcony,” said Digby, “how did he or she get there?”
He opened the French door and stepped out into the night, walking along the balcony until he came to the square space above the porch. There was another window here which gave on to the landing at the head of the stairs. He tried it—it was fastened. Coming back through the girl’s room he discovered that not only was the catch in its socket, but the key was turned.
“Strange,” he muttered.
His first impression had been that it was his mother who, with her strange whims, had been searching the room for some trumpery trinket which had taken her fancy. But the old woman was not sufficiently agile to climb a balcony, nor had she the courage to make a midnight foray.
“My own impression is that you dreamt
