She moved across the room to find a wrap, and when opposite the door leading into the kitchen was stopped by a draft as from an open window. That was unusual because her father was rather finicky about having the house tight-locked at night, and Roxie knew this. For a moment she hesitated. It was not yet full day, but she could see well enough to distinguish objects within. Perhaps Roxie was up. She often rose early. Wilmer ventured to the threshold and called the girl’s name. She received no response, but she saw then it was not a window but the outside door that was open. It affected her as something dramatic. Nothing can be more significant than a door open when it should be closed or closed when it should be open. It involves a human element that may mean much. On the whole, Wilmer was now sorry she had come down here. She was no more than ordinarily timid, but there is something unnatural about a house before it has awakened. The silence, for one thing, is intensive. One feels like an intruder, and like an intruder is never sure of what one may stumble upon. The night things do not vanish except before direct rays of either sun or lamp. Finally, with considerable effort, she crossed the kitchen and hurriedly closed the door--with an odd feeling, before it latched, that something from without might resist her efforts. She was left a little out of breath. Which was absurd, of course. She realized this as soon as she had turned the lock. But now the dead stove and the dumb kettle and the silent pots and pans hanging all around oppressed her. A kitchen is a living thing expressed in terms of noise and movement. When it is quiet and still, it is out of character. Moreover, it emphasized the absence of Roxie. She was always here, or at least some evidence of her. Wilmer listened for her footsteps overhead. She ought by now to be dressing. The first feeble chirps of the early birds could be heard outside and she always rose with them. It was not necessary for her to get up at this hour, but she always did. A peculiar sense of loneliness swept over Wilmer. She felt suddenly conscious of being the only live thing about in the house. She wished to see Roxie--to hear another human voice. It was this which impelled her up the stairs to the girl’s door. It was closed and she heard no movement within. She rapped gently and received no response. Then she turned the knob and gently pressed the door open. Her eyes sought the bed. It was empty. And in the center of the room there stood one shoe and beside it a bit of paper. She picked up the note and hurrying to the window read it. Her heart stopped beating for a moment. Roxie had gone. Reading between the lines as clearly as Allston had done, she knew with whom. But there were some other things between the lines, clear enough to Allston, which she did not understand.