Quite clearly and sharply, as if he were saying it again, warning her. The trouble was she hadn’t locked the door. That was quite late, after Brule had been called away to see a patient. It was the ringing of the telephone that awakened her out of a troubled, haunted sleep that wasn’t quite sleep nor was it quite sensible awareness, for all the faces and all the words and all the remembered scenes that kept nagging at her were grotesquely importunate and repetitious. But the telephone brought her instantly over the borderline into real sensibility; she could hear it plainly through the closed door between the small guest room and Brule’s own study; could hear the low murmur of Brule’s voice in reply. She heard, too, for the house was quiet, the subsequent closing of the door from Brule’s suite into the hall in about the time it would have taken him to dress, and presently another low murmur of voices from somewhere in the hall.
