"If I close my eyes, I can almost see it as it was," she said. "I can almost get that strange feeling I had when I came here. If I could be here for a while alone I think I could see things. I’d like to go into the closet again. Let’s see if the crack is still in the door." It was still there. She asked permission to go inside, and the Jewess rather uncomfortably agreed. The place was filled with clothing; it was close and odorous; the shelves were filled with boxes, rags and household belongings. Clytie went in rather timidly. "Go over where I sat in the front room, that day," she said. "I want to look through the crack, as you did. I’d like to be locked in, too, but the key is gone." She closed the door on herself while Granthope walked to the bay-window and looked idly out. It was such a strange sensation, being in the old place again, that for some moments he lost himself in a reverie; then, turning and not seeing Clytie, he walked rapidly to the door and opened it. She stood there, leaning back against the wall of clothing with a wondering, far-away expression, her eyes staring, her face white, her breath coming fast through her parted lips. He took her hand, thinking that she was fainting, and led her out. She recovered herself quickly and drew him into the front room. "I saw my father while I was in there," she whispered. "He was looking about the room furtively, as if searching for something. What can it mean? I’m afraid something has happened to him—I’m alarmed about it. I must go right home and see if anything’s the matter. I had a strange feeling, like a pain, at first, in the dark, and I was frightened. Then I saw him. Come, let’s go away!" She went up to the Jewish woman and shook hands with her, thanking her for the courtesy. The old lady patted Clytie’s hand approvingly. "That’s funny, what everybody wants to see my room for," she said, "but I don’t care when I get a dollar every time, do I? Last week they was an old gentleman here, like you was, to see it!" "What was he like?" Granthope inquired. "Oh, he was bald-head, with a spectacles and some beard." Granthope and Clytie exchanged glances. "He must have been down here for something," she said. "I can’t make it out. I’m afraid that there’s some trouble. It worries me." *CHAPTER XIX* *FANCY GRAY ACCEPTS*