Now she saw the door a few inches ajar with, beyond it, a dim glow. The
circumstance seemed singular, because--now that she remembered--when Sofia
had expressed perfunctory curiosity concerning what precautions were taken
to safeguard the jewels, Lady Randolph West had airily informed her that
she considered insurance to their appraised value plus a stout lock on the
boudoir door better than any strong-box as yet devised by the ingenuity of
man.
"There's the safe they're kept in, of course," the lady had
declared--"but, my dear, a cardboard box will do as well when any burglar
who knows his business makes up his mind to get at my trinkets. I never
even trouble to lock the thing. I'd rather lose the jewels--and collect the
insurance money--than be frightened out of my wits by hearing it blown
open. No, thanks ever so: any cracksman skillful enough to pick the lock on
the door may bag his loot and go in peace for all of me!"
Impulse, at least she called it that, moved Sofia to approach and
cautiously open the door still wider.
Upon the antique writing-desk that housed the safe burned a single lamp of
low candle-power. A door that led to the adjoining bedchamber was tightly
shut. Sofia's mistrustful eyes reconnoitred every corner of the room, and
reckoned it empty. Again obedient to undisputed impulse, she stepped inside
and shut the door. The spring-latch of the American lock found its socket
with a soft click. Thereafter, silence, no sound in the boudoir, none from
the room beyond.
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