She left the room and closed the door behind her.

She stood for a moment as if hesitating, with her hand upon the lock.

In this short interval the knocking came again, and a voice close to the window--a voice the locksmith seemed to recollect, and to have some disagreeable association with--whispered 'Make haste.' The words were uttered in that low distinct voice which finds its way so readily to sleepers' ears, and wakes them in a fright.

For a moment it startled even the locksmith; who involuntarily drew back from the window, and listened.
The wind rumbling in the chimney made it difficult to hear what passed, but he could tell that the door was opened, that there was the tread of a man upon the creaking boards, and then a moment's silence--broken by a suppressed something which was not a shriek, or groan, or cry for help, and yet might have been either or all three; and the words 'My God!' uttered in a voice it chilled him to hear.
He rushed out upon the instant.

There, at last, was that dreadful look--the very one he seemed to know so well and yet had never seen before--upon her face.