It was still
ajar and a streak of light showed from top to bottom. The hall
lamp was not lit.
"You had better stay where you are," said Caroline with guarded
sharpness.
"I am going to see," repeated Mrs. Brigham firmly.
Then she folded her skirts so tightly that her bulk with its
swelling curves was revealed in a black silk sheath, and she went
with a slow toddle across the hall to the study door. She stood
there, her eye at the crack.
In the south room Rebecca stopped sewing and sat watching with
dilated eyes. Caroline sewed steadily. What Mrs. Brigham,
standing at the crack in the study door, saw was this:
Henry Glynn, evidently reasoning that the source of the strange
shadow must be between the table on which the lamp stood and the
wall, was making systematic passes and thrusts all over and through
the intervening space with an old sword which had belonged to his
father. Not an inch was left unpierced. He seemed to have divided
the space into mathematical sections. He brandished the sword with
a sort of cold fury and calculation; the blade gave out flashes of
light, the shadow remained unmoved.
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