The Dower House Mystery by Patricia Wentworth Page A

the light turned on, the crying of the cat came again.
    Amabel had a moment of indecision. She could go back into her room and lock herself in, or she could go forward to the stair-head and turn on the light in the hall. The moment lasted only long enough to draw a quick breath. “It must be a real cat—it must. And of course Fearless is crazy. I must get him back.” She ran to the head of the stairs, and as she pressed the switch and saw the hall leap into light, there came to her ears the sudden, violent crash of breaking glass. She stood, her hand on the wall, and stared down.
    The drawing-room door just opposite the foot of the stairs was wide open; the room showed dark beyond; and from that darkness there came the tinkling sound of falling glass. It ceased. No other sound came.
    Amabel stood there without moving, her eyes on the open door. A very deep silence settled on the house. She tried to speak, to break it, to call to Fearless; but no sound would come; the stillness was unbroken; it was very cold, it was very, very cold. With one of the greatest efforts she had ever made in her life she withdrew her hand from the wall. She did not know how to turn and get back to her room, but she knew that she must turn and get back. If something were to come up the stairs behind her! The momentary panic passed into numbness; she could not turn, she could not move. She stood there for a long time, and there was never another sound at all. At last she drew a long breath, and went slowly, stiffly, back to her room. She left the lights burning, and locked her door, then turned, and stood wide-eyed and rigid.
    There was the window on her right; the bureau pulled out a little with the telephone behind it; the dark press opposite. To the left, the table with the lamp upon it; the big, old-fashioned bed; and, beyond the bed-foot, the door into Miss Georgina’s room.
    And the door into Miss Georgina’s room was open.

Chapter XI
    Jenny brought up a cup of tea in the morning, opened the curtains, set hot water. Amabel looked at her keenly.
    â€œDid you hear anything last night, Jenny?” she asked.
    â€œNo, ma’am,” said Jenny. “Did it blow, ma’am? Mother and me are heavy sleepers.”
    â€œI think,” said Amabel, still looking at her, “I think there’s a window broken somewhere. Have you been into the drawing-room yet?”
    â€œNo, ma’am,” said Jenny. Then, by the door, she turned and said in her usual gentle, depressed manner, “Did you know as all the lights was on, up and down? They must have been on all night.”
    â€œYes,” said Amabel, “I’m afraid they were.” Just as Jenny was disappearing she called her back. “Was the drawing-room door open as you came upstairs?”
    Jenny stood on the threshold and drooped.
    â€œNot that I took notice of,” she said.
    Amabel dressed, and came downstairs. The drawing-room door was shut. She opened it, and came into the half light of a curtained room. There was a mouldy smell, and something else—a fresh draught blowing; it stirred the heaviness which it could not lift.
    Amabel crossed the floor and pulled back the heavy, brocaded curtains which had, perhaps, been new when Julian’s mother was a bride. As she stepped forward to pull them, she trod on a piece of glass and felt it break. The light showed a gaping hole in the window about four feet from the floor, the whole pane splintered, the edges jagged and irregular; outside on the moss-grown gravel a litter of shivered fragments. She stood and looked for a moment, and then turned back into the room. There was another window at the far end. She drew this curtain also, then went to the door and shut it.
    Ten minutes later she heard the sound of footsteps, saw Julian coming across the gravel, and heard him check and exclaim. She came up to the broken window, and they looked at one another across the debris.
    Julian gave a long