Then there's that other door by the alcove, and all those French windows--whew!" She shook her head.
It was true.

The room in which she stood, while comfortable and charming, seemed unusually accessible to the night prowler.

A row of French windows at the rear gave upon a little terrace; below the terrace, the drive curved about and beneath the billiard-room windows in a hairpin loop, drawing up again at the main entrance on the other side of the house.

At the left of the French windows (if one faced the terrace as Miss Cornelia was doing) was the alcove door of which she spoke.

When open, it disclosed a little alcove, almost entirely devoted to the foot of a flight of stairs that gave direct access to the upper regions of the house.