She
carried something shining in her hands--something that gleamed in the
dim, uncertain light from the big window. She stood just for an instant
with a feeling that somebody was climbing up the ivy outside the house.
She felt her way along until she came to the alcove containing the
Rembrandt and then she stopped. Her hand slid along the wall till her
fingers touched the switch of the electric light.
She stood for a long time there perfectly motionless. It was a still
night outside, and there was nothing to account for the rustling of the
ivy leaves. The rattling came in jerks, spasmodically, stopping every now
and then and resuming again. It was no longer a matter of imagination, it
was a certainty. Somebody was climbing up the ivy to the window.
Leaning eagerly forward, Christabel could hear the sound of laboured
breathing. She seemed to see the outline of an arm outside, she could
catch the quick rattle of the sash, she could almost see a bent wire
crooked through the beaded edges of the casement. Yes, she was right.
The window swung noiselessly back and a figure stood poised on the
ledge outside.
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