It was Ali Baba's cave to us, with half its
treasures unguessed and every trunk and box whispering, "Say 'Open,
Sesame,' to me, and see what you'll find!"
While I was sitting with Alicia's head against my knee, a light,
swift footstep sounded overhead in the attic, followed by a sort of
stumble, as if somebody had slipped on one of those unexpected
steps. Alicia rose quickly.
"Sophy," she breathed, "I have thought, once or twice, that I heard
somebody walking in the attic."
"We will soon find out who it is, then," said I. Noiselessly we
stole out into the hall, past the sleeping Westmacotes, and Miss
Emmeline Phelps-Parsons who so longed to come in closer contact with
the occult and unknown. We moved like ghosts, ourselves, our
felt-soled mules making no sound.
The Author opened his door just as we approached it, and held up an
imperious finger.
"Did you hear it, too?" he whispered. And walking ahead of us, he
stole up the cork-screw stairway at the end of the side hall, lifted
the latch of the attic door, and stepped inside.
It was frightfully dark up there. If you peered through the
uncurtained windows you could see tree-tops tossing like black waves
against the dark sky, and in between them rolling clouds, and little
bright patchwork spaces of stars.
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