e could see that the hall below was
brightly lighted, and all was still. She listened intently outside the
drawing-room door. Not a sound. She might have time--if he really hadn't
arrived.

She fled across the head of the staircase and was at the door of the
library in a second of time. There she paused. No, there was no sound
behind her! No one was coming upstairs! No one was opening the front
door or moving in the hall! But it was just possible that he had already
arrived and was sitting in the library. He might be sitting there--and
looking severe! That would be alarming! Though--and here Gwen suddenly
decided that for all his severity she infinitely preferred his
appearance to that of a man like Mr. Boreham--Mr. Boreham's beard was
surely the limit! She listened at the door. She laid her cheek against
it and listened. No sound! The whole house illuminated and yet silent!
There was something strange about it! She would peep in and if there was
no light within--except, of course, firelight--she would know instantly
that the Warden wasn't there. It would only take her a flash of a minute
to run in, throw the letter down on the desk, and fly for all she was
worth.

She turned the handle of the door slowly and noiselessly, and pushed
ever so little. The door opened just an inch or two and
disclosed--darkness! Except for a glimmer--just a faint glimmer of
light!

He could not have come in, he could not possibly be there, and yet Gwen
had a curious impression that the room was not empty. But empty it must
be. She pushed the door quietly open and peeped in. The fire was burning
on the hearth in solemn silence, a cavernous red. There was nobody in
the room, and yet, as Gwen stole in and passed the projecting book-case
opposite the door, against which she had stumbled that evening of
evenings, she felt that she was not alone. It was a strange unpleasant
feeling. There she was standing in the full space of that shadowy room.
Books, books were everywhere--books that seemed to her keeping secrets
in their pages and purposely not saying anything. The room was too long,
too full of dead things--like books--too full of shadows. The heavy
curtains looked black, the desk, its chair standing with its back to the
fire--had a look of expecting to be occupied and waiting. She would have
liked to have thrown the letter on to the desk instead of having to
cross the few feet that separated her from the desk. The silence of the
room was