One thing was clear; if it was a member of the S.C.R. lurking behind those curtains, it would not be politic to bring a student to witness the discovery. What dons slept in Tudor? Without consulting the list, Harriet remembered that Miss Barton and Miss Chilperic had rooms there, but on the far side of the building. Here was an opportunity to check up on them, at any rate. With a last glance at the Library window, Harriet made her way quickly back past her own room on the Bridge and through into the main building. She cursed herself for not having a torch; she was delayed by fumbling with the switches. Along the corridor, past the stair-head and round to the left. No don on that floor; it must be on the floor below. Back, and down the stairs and along to the left again. She was leaving all the passage-lights burning behind her, and wondered whether they would arouse attention in other buildings. At last. A door on her left labelled “Miss Barton.” And the door stood open.
She knocked at it sharply, and went in. The sitting-room was empty. Beyond it, the bedroom door stood open too. “Gracious! said Harriet. ”Miss Barton!“ There was no reply; and, looking in, she saw that the bedroom was as empty as the sitting-room. The bed-clothes were flung back and the bed had been slept in; but the sleeper had risen and gone.
It was easy to think of an innocent explanation. Harriet stood for a moment, considering; and then called to mind that the window of the room overlooked the quad. The curtains were drawn back; she looked out into the darkness. The light still shone in the Library window; but while she looked, it went out.
She ran back to the foot of the stair and through the entrance-hall. The front door of the building was ajar. She pulled it open and ran out and across the quad. As she ran, something seemed to loom up ahead of her. She made for it and closed with it. It caught her in a muscular grip.
“Who’s that?” demanded Harriet, fiercely.
“And who’s that?”
The grip of one hand was released and a torch was switched on into Harriet’s face.
“Miss Vane! What are you doing here?”
“Is that Miss Barton? I was looking for you. I saw a light in the New Library.”
“So did I. I’ve just been over to investigate. The door’s locked.”
“Locked?”
“And the key inside.”
“Isn’t there another way up?” asked Harriet.
“Yes, of course there is. I ought to have thought of that. Up through the Hall passage and the Fiction Library. Come along!”
“Wait a minute,” said Harriet. “Whoever it is may be still there. You watch the main door, to see they don’t get out that way. I’ll go up through the Hall.”
“Very well. Good idea. Here! haven’t you got a torch? You’d better take mine. You’ll waste time turning on lights.”
Harriet snatched the torch and ran, thinking hard. Miss Barton’s story sounded plausible enough. She had woken up (why?), seen the light (very likely she slept with her curtains drawn open) and gone out to investigate while Harriet was running about the upper floors hunting for the right room. In the meantime, the person in the Library had either finished what she was doing or, possibly, peeped out and been alarmed by seeing the lights go up in Tudor. She had switched out the light. She had not gone out by the main door; she was either still somewhere in the Hall-Library Wing, or she had crept out by the Hall stair while Miss Barton and Harriet were grappling with one another in the quad.
Harriet found the Hall stair and started up it, using her torch as little as possible and keeping the light low. It came forcibly into her mind that the person she was hunting was- must be-unbalanced, if not mad, and might possibly deliver a nasty swipe out of a dark corner. She arrived at the head of the stair, and pushed back the swinging glass double door that led to the passage between the Hall and the Buttery. As she did so, she fancied she heard a slight scuffling sound ahead, and almost simultaneously she saw the gleam of a torch. There ought to be a two-way switch just on the right, behind the door. She found it, and pressed it down. There was a quick flicker, and then darkness. A fuse? Then she laughed at herself. Of course not. The person at the other end of the passage had flicked the switch at the same moment as herself. She pushed the switch up again, and the lights flooded the passage.
On her left, she saw the three doorways, with the serving-hatches between, that led into the Hall. On the right was the long blank wall between the passage and the kitchens. And ahead of her, at the far end of the passage, close to the Buttery door, stood somebody clutching a dressing-gown about her with one hand and a large jug in the other.
Harriet advanced swiftly upon this apparition, which came meekly enough to meet her. Its features seemed familiar, and in a moment she identified them. It was Miss Hudson, the Third Year student who had been up at Gaudy.
“What in the world are you doing here at this time of night?” demanded Harriet, severely. Not that she had any particular right to question students about their movements. Nor did she feel that her own appearance, in pyjamas and a Jaeger dressing-gown, suggested dignity or authority. Miss Hudson, indeed, seemed quite flabbergasted at being thus accosted by a total stranger at three in the morning. She stared, speechless.
“Why shouldn’t I be here?” said Miss Hudson, at last defiantly. “I don’t know who you are. I’ve as much right to walk about as you have… Oh, gosh!” she added, and burst out laughing. “I suppose you’re one of the scouts. I didn’t recognize you without your uniform.”
“No,” said Harriet “I’m an old student. You’re Miss Hudson, aren’t you! But your room isn’t here. Have you been along to the Buttery?” Her eyes were on the jug; Miss Hudson blushed.
“Yes-I wanted some milk. I’ve got an essay.”
She spoke of it as though it were a disease. Harriet chuckled.
“So that still goes on, does it? Carrie’s just as soft-hearted as Agnes was in my day.” She went up to the Buttery hatch and shook it, but it was locked. “No, apparently she isn’t.”
“I asked her to leave it open,” said Miss Hudson, “but I expect she forgot. I say-don’t give Carrie away. She’s awfully decent.”
“You know quite well that Carrie isn’t supposed to leave the hatch open. You ought to get your milk before ten o’clock.”
“I know. But one doesn’t always know if one will want it. You’ve done the same thing in your time, I expect.”
“Yes,” said Harriet. “Well, you’d better cut along. Wait a second. When did you come up here?”
“Just now. Just a few seconds before you did.”
“Did you meet anybody?”
“No,” Miss Hudson looked alarmed. “Why? Has anything happened?”
“Not that I know of. Get along to bed.”
Miss Hudson escaped and Harriet tried the Buttery door which was as firmly locked as the hatch. Then she went on, through the Fiction Library, which was empty, and put her hand on the handle of the oak door that led to the New Library. The door was immovable. There was no key in the lock. Harriet looked round the Fiction Library. On the window-sill lay a thin pencil, beside a book and a few papers. She pushed the pencil into the key-hole; it encountered no resistance.
She went to the window of the Fiction Library and pushed it up. It looked on to the roof of a small loggia. Two people were not enough for this game of hide-and-seek. She pulled a table across the Library door, so that if anybody tried to come out that way behind her back she should have notice of it; then she climbed out on to the loggia roof and leaned over the balcony. She could see nothing distinctly beneath her, but she pulled her torch from her pocket and signalled with it.