"Annette! Annette!" she called again, a mere matter of habit; for she relied on her respectable, middle-aged Burgundian maid for anything and everything that troubled her, from wrestling with a cynical, inquisitive reporter to putting the correct quantity of ammonia in her bromo seltzers.
"Yes, madame," came the maid's sleepy voice.
"Has anybody called?"
"No, madame."
"But—"
She looked into the corner of the entrance hall. The Thing seemed to be crouching amongst the peacock-green cushions of the ottoman there.
"But, Annette—" she commenced again.
She did not complete the sentence. Somehow, it did not make any difference. The Thing was there.
And what did it matter how it had got in?
"I am coming, madame," said the maid.
"Never mind. Go to sleep. I'll undress myself. Good night, Annette!"
"Good night, madame!"
Diana Manning shrugged her shoulders, walked across the entrance hall, and put her hand on the door-knob of her boudoir. She said to herself that
