A light in the ceiling of the vestibule glowed forth immediately and I heard the movement of heavy metal locks and latches; the door swung back and I found myself standing before a middle-aged woman dressed in the black-and-white garb of well-trained servants. This woman had a face that one may find sometimes among veteran nuns--a strong and kindly face, patient and self-subjugated--the face of the convent. But, of course, old family serving-women may have this same expression, for they too are nuns in a sense; in household rites they renounce the world, and if the spirit does not sour, little by little, they take wordless vows and obliterate themselves in service. This woman who stood before me, with skirts and apron blown about her substantial figure by the chill wind that poured into the vestibule, seemed at first to be one of them. It was only when I perceived that her eyes were filled with some guilty fear, and that her hands were half raised as if to ward off some impending danger, that I began to suspect that hers was one of those masks which hypocrisy and deceit grow upon the countenance of evil souls. "I wish to see Mr. Estabrook," said I. "He is not at home. He is away." "Mrs. Estabrook." "She is not well, sir. She cannot see anybody." These conventional answers seemed to put an end to the interview: if she had not spoken again, with that strange look of apprehension and terror rising to her eyes, I would have bowed and turned away. But her voice trembled as she moved toward me timidly and said, "Will you leave a message? Will you call again? Will you say--will you say--" Her sentence failed like that. As it did, words sprang to my mouth. I looked at her accusingly. "Yes," I snapped. "On the second story of the Marburys' house there is, of course, a partition. I called to ask Mrs. Estabrook what was on _her_ side of that wall." This information acted like dynamite. You would have said that it had blown to pieces some vital organ of the old servant. The color ran out of her face as if her head had lost its connection with her body. "This is terrible," she choked. "Oh, 'tis awful! Who are you? Who can you be? Somebody has sent you." She caught the edge of the door and pushed it toward me. "I know who you are," she exclaimed. "You are somebody that is sent by _him_!" With a final shove, then, she closed the crack which had remained, the locks moved again, the light in the vestibule went out, and I was alone on the step.