unaware of her scrutiny, he walked silently across the hall to an ante-room. He opened the door, and without a sound disappeared inside.
Emma frowned, and straightened up. She had been leaning on the balcony rail, and her arm felt cold from the touch. But she was unconscious of any discomfort to herself. There had been something peculiar about the entrance of the man downstairs; she could not have said what it was exactly, but his movements had been deliberately stealthy, as though the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. And if that was the case, who could he be? And what was he doing down there?
Emma swallowed hard. It was difficult for her to gauge the situation. From what Celeste had told her, and the Contessa’s conversation the previous evening, she had gathered that only the apartments on the first floor were used by the Contessa and her grandson, and if this were so, what possible reason could anyone have for entering the ante-room downstairs, and with a guitar, too? It sounded ridiculous when she thought about it, and shrugging her shoulders, she turned resolutely away. Whatever was going on it was no concern of hers, and she hardly knew the Contessa well enough to go and ask whether she knew that someone was using one of her downstairs rooms.
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