at had registered its effects upon my patient, little
Virginia Marbury.

I listened with my ear pressed softly against the door. No other sign of
life came to me than that of soft breathing. Indeed, even then I had to
admit to myself that I might have imagined the sound. I stood back, as
one does in such circumstances, half afraid to act--half afraid that to
touch the knob or assault the closed and silent room would be to bring
the sky crashing down to earth, turn loose a pestilence, set a demon
free, or expose some sight grisly enough to turn the observer to stone.
I found myself sensing the presence of a person or persons behind the
opaque panels; my eyes were trying, as eyes will, to look through the
painted wooden barrier.

My glance wandered to the top of the door, back again to the middle,
downward toward the bottom. The house was so still, now that Margaret
had stepped out of it into the vestibule, that the ears imagined that
they heard the beating of great velvety black wings. The gloom of the
drawn blinds produced strange shadows, in which the eyes endeavored to
find lurking, unseen things that watched the conduct and the destinies
of men. But my eyes and ears returned again each time to their vain
attention to the entrance of that room, as if the stillness and the
gloom bade me listen and look, while I stood there hesitant.

At last the reason for my hesitancy, the reason for my reluctance, the
reason for my staring, suddenly appeared as if some fate had directed my
observation. A corner of an envelope was protruding from beneath the
door!

I felt as I pulled the envelope through that the next moment might bring
a piteous outcry from within, as if I had drawn upon the vital nerves of
an organism. Yet none came; I found myself erect once more with the
envelope in my hand, reading the writing on its face. It was scrawled in
a trembling hand.

"Margaret," it said, "send for my husband. Give him this envelope
without opening it yourself. Give it to him before he comes to this
door."

"Poor woman!" I said with a sudden awakening of sympathy. "Poor, poor
woman!"

With my whispered words repeating themselves in my mind, I retraced my
way along the hall, down the stairs.

I opened the front door quietly. My first glance showed me the
countenance of the old servant; it was lighted by the words which the
young man was saying to her.

"Estabrook," said I.

He jumped like a wounded man.

"She is not dead?"