In the third story, and only accessible by two flights of stairs
leading from Arthur's suite of rooms, was a large square
apartment, the door of which Mrs. Johnson unlocked with a
mysterious shake of the head, saying to the ladies, "The Lord only
knows what this place is for. Mr. St. Claire must have fixed it
himself for I found it locked tighter than a drum, but I
accidentally found on the but'ry shelf a rusty old key, that fits
it to a T. I've been in here once and bein' you're his kin,"
nodding to Grace, "and t'other one is with you, it can't do an
atom of harm for you to go. He's took more pains with this chamber
than with all the rest, and when I asked what 'twas for, he said
it was his "den," where he could hide if he wanted to."
"Don't go," whispered Edith, pulling at Grace's dress, "Mr. St.
Claire might not like it."
But Grace felt no such scruples, and was already across the
threshold, leaving Edith by the door.
"It's as bad to look in as to go in," thought Edith, and
conquering her curiosity with a mighty effort, she walked
resolutely down stairs, having seen nothing save that the carpet
was of the richest velvet and that the windows had across them
slender iron bars, rather ornamental than otherwise, and so
arranged as to exclude neither light nor air.
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