And then, just as she was about to move, something in the heaviness of the tread and the firmness and steadiness of the footsteps told her that it could not be Bing.
She closed her eyes and braced herself.
The footsteps came nearer, paused for a moment and then passed on. She looked up and with a sense of dismay realised that the draught from the window must have opened the door wider than Bing had intended. He had left it nearly closed, but now it stood wide open and anyone who had passed must have seen her.
It was not that it mattered particularly because she had been lying looking exhausted, as they had planned. At the same time if it was a servant why had he not asked her what was the matter or if he could help?
Vaguely she felt something was wrong, but she did not know what to do
