A strange man sat at the bureau quietly going through the papers on it. A kit-bag lay beside him on the floor, evidently full. And the silver candlesticks and inkstand and the silver Indian things off the mantelpiece—none of them there. Lucilla crept up the stairs again, fleet and noiseless as Diana in the chase, and as she went she thought.
"Call Jane? No good, any more than I am. The servants? Worse than no good. Mr, and Mrs. Thornton? No, a woman might scream if you wakened her suddenly. Mr. Tombs? I think not. Bill Thornton? Yes, I think so."
And she crept along the softly-carpeted corridor towards the young man's room.
"But you can't knock at his door," said Decorum to Lucilla, "because of warning the burglar. You'll have to go right in. That will never do. It wouldn't be proper."
"Don't be silly," said Lucilla to Decorum. "I've something else to think about than things being proper."
And she turned the handle of Bill's door, which opened noiselessly. Not locked, thank goodness! The room was quite dark, but she knew where the bed lay and felt her way to it. Fortunately she was one of those persons who do not lose their sense of direction in the dark. Presently she felt the edge of the bed against her knees and heard the quiet breathing of him who slept there. Did men scream if you waked them suddenly? Well, she must chance that. She reached out her hand to where she thought a shoulder should be, grasped an arm clad in thick silk, and whispered as she grasped it, "Hush!"
Mr. Thornton did not scream. Nor did he move. He answered her whisper with another:
"What's up?"
"It's me. It's Lucilla. There's a burglar."
"Where?"
"In the drawing-room."
"Righto," he whispered. "Cut back to your room. It'll be all right."
