Peyton's boudoir; the window by which he had once forced
an entrance to the house when it was in the hands of squatters, the
window from which Susy had signaled her Spanish lover, the window whose
grating had broken the neck of Judge Peyton's presumed assassin. But
these recollections no longer delayed him; the moment for action had
arrived. He knew that since the tragedy the boudoir had been dismantled
and shunned; the servants believed it to be haunted by the assassin's
ghost. With the aid of the passion vine the ingress was easy; the
interior window was open; the rustle of dead leaves on the bare floor as
he entered, and the whir of a frightened bird by his ear, told the story
of its desolation and the source of the strange noises that had been
heard there. The door leading to the corridor was lightly bolted, merely
to keep it from rattling in the wind. Slipping the bolt with the blade
of his pocket-knife he peered into the dark passage. The light streaming
under a door to the left, and the sound of voices, convinced him that
his conjecture was right, and the meeting was gathered on the broad
balconies around the patio. He knew that a narrow gallery, faced with
Venetian blinds to exclude the sun, looked down upon them.
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