So intent was Cynthia in reaching her goal that she never noticed a figure crouching on the landing of the stairs, who drew back fearfully into the shadows at her approach. She found the ice pitcher on the table with several glasses. Filling one of them, she took a long drink of the ice-cold water, then, feeling much refreshed, she refilled the glass, intending to take it with her to her room. She paused again and looked about her with interest, for the hall was illuminated by the moonlight which streamed through the diamond-shaped panes of a window at one end of a wing of the house. The figure below her on the stair landing peered at her intently, poised for instant flight to the darker regions below in case she started to descend the stairs. Cynthia was about to return to her room when her roving eyes fell on a closed door leading to a room in the wing. The moonlight was beating upon it. For one long second Cynthia stood transfixed; then she uttered a cry which roused the sleeping household--a cry of such terror that it froze the blood in the listeners' veins. The figure on the landing stood glued to the spot until recalled to action by the hurried opening of doors; then, with incredible swiftness, it vanished, as Eleanor, her hastily donned wrapper streaming in the wind, rushed to Cynthia's side. "Good God! Cynthia! What is it?" she gasped, throwing her arms about her friend. Cynthia caught her wrist in a grip which made her wince. "Look!" she cried. "Look!" pointing toward the door at the end of the wing. "My dream! See, the panels are in the shape of a cross!" Eleanor cast a startled glance in the direction indicated. It was true. The panels stood out in bold relief in the brilliant moonlight, and they formed an unmistakable cross. "Yes, yes, dear," she said soothingly. "It simply shows that your dream was founded on fact. Come to bed." "No, no!" Cynthia was trembling violently, but she refused to leave the spot. "You forget that in my dream the door is always locked." "In this case it is not," exclaimed Colonel Thornton, who, with Douglas, had rushed into the hall as soon as they had struggled into some clothes. Mrs. Truxton brought up the rear, her curl papers standing upright and her eyes almost popping from her head. "It's simply used as a storeroom," he added. "Don't be so worried, Cynthia," catching sight of her agonized face. "I tell you it is _not!_" She stamped her foot in her excitement. For answer Thornton stepped down the short hallway and turned the knob. To his intense surprise the door did not open. "Ah!" Her cry was half in triumph, half in agony. "I told you it was locked. It must be opened--I shall go mad if it is not," and her looks did not belie her statement. Douglas joined Thornton as he stood hesitating. "I think it would be best to humor her," he said in an undertone.