So still, so lonely, so cold, with the heavy curtains drawn over the wide windows, only admitting faint streaks of light which stole whitely through the heavy atmosphere of the room. On the bed was the black coffin, with the dead man laid therein. On either side tall candles were burning with a sickly light, and the heavy draperies of the bed hung motionless as if frozen with horror. In the dim shadows of the far end of the room, where the faint daylight and the faint candlelight produced an unnatural twilight, stood the desk, and towards it Beaumont stepped with a stealthy activity, suggestive of the sinuosity of a tiger. After him, soft-footed and pale, stole the woman up.
"In which recess did you lock up the letter?" he asked in a low whisper.
She indicated the place with outstretched finger and shuddered as she heard the click of the key turning in the lock. A subdued rustle of papers, a soft, shutting sound, another click as the key turned again, and the first part of the scheme was achieved.
In the shadowy light of the room their faces looked pale and haggard, as they sped silently and rapidly towards the door, as though they feared lest the dead man should arise from his coffin and call upon them to stop. Did no frown pass over that marble face? Did no sound hint to them that a disembodied spirit stood near the bed wailing over the failure of its cherished scheme through the treachery of humanity? No, all was still as the grave as the two companions glided out of the room, along the corridor, down the stairs, and found themselves once more in the housekeeper's room.
"Faugh!" said Beaumont, on whose pale face the beads of perspiration were standing, "what unpleasant work. Give me some brandy."
The housekeeper silently left the room and shortly returned with a liqueur glass of the liquor, which he tossed off rapidly, and the effect was soon seen in the glow which came over his face.
"You ought to have some yourself," he suggested, handing her back the glass.
"I don't require it," she replied coldly. "I'm used to the atmosphere of this house. You are not."
"It's like a charnel-house," he said, with a look of disgust. "Well, I've done my part of the affair. Now, all you've got to do is to swear Reginald is Fanny Blake's son. I'll leave it to your ingenuity to tell a good story."