3Lizbeth lay in the dark and listened. There was only the silence of the great house, which had long been closed for the night. Outside she could hear the hoot of an owl and occasionally far away in the woods the bark of a fox and the high scream of a jay.
They were the usual sounds she heard at night when she was awake, sounds which were not only familiar, but dear so that often she deliberately lay awake to listen for them, feeling they were part of her life and being proud that she could identify each sound.
But tonight she was listening for other noises and she lay rigid in the softness of her bed, waiting for the soft creaking of a door and for footsteps coming up the broad oak stairs. She had heard footsteps descending those same stairs two or three hours earlier, and wondering who
