She stumbled down, hoping to meet Jenkins.  She crossed the hall and the dining room and entered the library.  She bent over the lounge.  It was empty.  Her candle was reflected in the face of the clock on the mantel.  Its hands pointed to half-past two.

She pulled at the bell cord by the fireplace.  Why didn’t the butler come?  Alone she couldn’t climb the enclosed staircase to try the other door.  It seemed impossible to her that she should wait another instant alone—­

The butler, as old and as gray as Silas Blackburn, faltered in.  He started back when he saw her.

“My God, Miss Katherine!  What’s the matter?  You look like death.”

“There’s death,” she said.

She indicated the door of the enclosed staircase.  She led the way with the candle.  The panelled, narrow hall was empty.  That door, too, was locked and the key, she knew, must be on the inside.

“Who—­who is it?” Jenkins asked.  “Who would be in that room?  Has Mr. Bobby come back?”

She descended to the library before answering.  She put the candle down and spread her hands.

“It’s happened, Jenkins—­whatever he feared.”

“Not Mr. Silas?”

“We have to break in,” she said with a shiver.  “Get a hammer, a chisel, whatever is necessary.”

“But if there’s anything wrong,” the butler objected, “if anybody’s been there, the other door must be open.”

She shook her head.  Those two first of all faced that extraordinary puzzle.  How had the murderer entered and left the room with both doors locked on the inside, with the windows too high for use?  They went to the upper story.  She urged the butler into the sombre corridor.

“We have to know,” she whispered, “what’s happened beyond those locked doors.”

She still vibrated to the feeling of unconformable forces in the old house.  Jenkins, she saw, responded to the same superstitious misgivings.  He inserted the chisel with maladroit hands.  He forced the lock back and opened the door.  Dust arose from the long-disused room, flecking the yellow candle flame.  They hesitated on the threshold.  They forced themselves to enter.  Then they looked at each other and smiled with relief, for Silas Blackburn, in his dressing-gown, lay on the bed, his placid, unmarked face upturned, as if sleeping.

“Why, miss,” Jenkins gasped.  “He’s all right.”

Almost with confidence Katherine walked to the bed.

“Uncle Silas—­” she began, and touched his hand.

She drew back until the wall supported her.  Jenkins must have read everything in her face, for he whimpered: 

“But he looks all right.  He can’t be—­”

“Cold—­already!  If I hadn’t touched—­”

The horror of the thing descended upon her, stifling thought.  Automatically she left the room and told Jenkins what to do.  After he had telephoned police headquarters in the county seat and had summoned Doctor Groom, a country physician, she sat without words, huddled over the library fire.