The deadly dexterity of it struck him cold.  His nerves gave way.  He drew back with a start of guilty fear, and looked round the room.  A pocket flask of brandy lay on the table at his bedside.  He snatched it up, and emptied it at a draught—­and felt like himself again.

He beckoned to Hester to approach him.

“Before we go any further,” he said, “there’s one thing I want to know.  How is it all to be put right again?  Suppose this room is examined?  Those strings will show.”

Hester opened a cupboard and produced a jar.  She took out the cork.  There was a mixture inside which looked like glue.  Partly by signs, and partly by help of the slate, she showed how the mixture could be applied to the back of the loosened strip of paper in the next room—­how the paper could be glued to the sound lower part of the wall by tightening the strings—­how the strings, having served that purpose, could be safely removed—­how the same process could be followed in Geoffrey’s room, after the hollowed place had been filled up again with the materials waiting in the scullery, or even without filling up the hollowed place if the time failed for doing it.  In either case, the refastened paper would hide every thing, and the wall would tell no tales.

Geoffrey was satisfied.  He pointed next to the towels in his room.

“Take one of them,” he said, “and show me how you did it, with your own hands.”

As he said the words, Anne’s voice reached his ear from below, calling for “Mrs. Dethridge.”

It was impossible to say what might happen next.  In another minute, she might go up to her room, and discover every thing.  Geoffrey pointed to the wall.

“Put it right again,” he said.  “Instantly!”

It was soon done.  All that was necessary was to let the two strips of paper drop back into their places—­to fasten the strip to the wall in Anne’s room, by tightening the two lower strings—­and then to replace the nails which held the loose strip on Geoffrey’s side.  In a minute, the wall had reassumed its customary aspect.

They stole out, and looked over the stairs into the passage below.  After calling uselessly for the second time, Anne appeared, crossed over to the kitchen; and, returning again with the kettle in her hand, closed the drawing-room door.

Hester Dethridge waited impenetrably to receive her next directions.  There were no further directions to give.  The hideous dramatic representation of the woman’s crime for which Geoffrey had asked was in no respect necessary:  the means were all prepared, and the manner of using them was self-evident.  Nothing but the opportunity, and the resolution to profit by it, were wanting to lead the way to the end.  Geoffrey signed to Hester to go down stairs.

“Get back into the kitchen,” he said, “before she comes out again.  I shall keep in the garden.  When she goes up into her room for the night, show yourself at the back-door—­and I shall know.”