It was a very thick, solid door, and prevented his hearing distinctly anything that was said. He bent his head to the keyhole, but even then could only catch the sound of a man and woman conversing in low tones, without distinguishing a word. The sobbing had ceased for the moment, but, at a question apparently addressed to a third party, it immediately began again. A cold sweat gathered upon Earle Wayne’s forehead. The sounds affected him as he had never been affected before. He longed to know what piece of wickedness—for wickedness he was convinced it was—was being enacted within those walls at that time of night. A faint light from the other room shone into his through the transom, so that he could distinguish every object in it. He glanced up at the light, a sudden thought striking him. The transom, of course, was glazed, and he had no doubt that it was fastened upon the other side, but possibly he might hear a little more distinctly if he could get up to it, and it would do no harm for him to investigate and see if it was fastened. He brought the center-table and put it softly down by the door. He then took a blanket from his bed and covered the marble top, set a chair upon this, and then noiselessly mounting upon that by the aid of another, he found himself upon a level with the transom. To his intense satisfaction, he discovered that it was not fastened; it was tightly closed, but it yielded beneath his cautious touch, and he knew if he could open it ever so little without attracting the attention of the occupants of that room, he could satisfy himself regarding the nature of the proceedings there. While he stood there waiting for a favorable opportunity to push the transom open, a neighboring clock struck the hour of two. “Unless the young lady has been taken suddenly sick, I am satisfied that mischief of some kind is brewing,” he said to himself, and resolving not to leave his post until he had ascertained whether he was right or not. He found he could hear more plainly now—could catch a word occasionally, though not enough to give him any idea of the nature of the conversation carried on there. As soon as he heard that low sobbing again he gently tried to move the transom still more. It yielded a trifle, but grated a little on the wood work. He waited a moment, and then made another effort, and it moved just enough to admit a line of light at the bottom. Then he could hear quite plainly. A man seemed to be asking the strangest questions of some one. “Your name is Ellen Wood?” he heard him say, in a mocking tone. “Yes, Ellen Wood,” came the reply, in a plaintive voice that made Earle’s hair at once stand on end. “You are _sure_ your name is Ellen Wood?” “Yes, Ellen Wood,” in the same tone as before. “Where were you born?” “In Texas.” “Who is your father?” “Judge Allen Wood.” “Where is he now?” “He is dead.” “Who is this woman?” “She is my—mother,” with a shuddering accent on the last word.