Toward nightfall she
went out, bent on investigation, and ventured into the garden at North
Shingles under cover of the darkness. She saw the light in the parlor
window, and the lights in the windows of the rooms upstairs, as
usual. After an instant's hesitation she stole to the house door, and
noiselessly tried the handle from the outside. It turned the lock as she
had expected, from her experience of houses at Aldborough and at other
watering-places, but the door resisted her; the door was distrustfully
bolted on the inside. After making that discovery, she went round to
the back of the house, and ascertained that the door on that side was
secured in the same manner. "Bolt your doors, Mr. Bygrave, as fast as
you like," said the housekeeper, stealing back again to the Parade. "You
can't bolt the entrance to your servant's pocket. The best lock you have
may be opened by a golden key."
She went back to bed. The ceaseless watching, the unrelaxing excitement
of the last two days, had worn her out.
The next morning she rose at seven o'clock. In half an hour more she saw
the punctual Mr. Bygrave--as she had seen him on many previous mornings
at the same time--issue from the gate of North Shingles, with his towels
under his arm, and make his way to a boat that was waiting for him on
the beach.
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