After that, for days she was a prisoner. Herman moved his bed
down-stairs and slept in the sitting-room, the five or six hours of
day-light sleep which were all he required. And at night, while he was
at the mill, Rudolph sat and dozed and kept watch below. Twice a day
some meager provisions were left at the top of the stairs and her door
was unlocked. She would creep out and get them, not because she was
hungry, but because she meant to keep up her strength. Let their
vigilance slip but once, and she meant to be ready.
She learned to interpret every sound below. There were times when the
fumes from burning food came up the staircase and almost smothered her.
And there were times, she fancied, when Herman weakened and Rudolph
talked for hours, inciting and inflaming him again. She gathered, too,
that Gus's place was under surveillance, and more than once in the
middle of the night stealthy figures came in by the garden gate and
conferred with Rudolph down-stairs. Then, one evening, in the dusk
of the May twilight, she saw three of them come, one rather tall and
military of figure, and one of them carried, very carefully, a cheap
suitcase.
She knew what was in that suitcase.