"We've sent telegrams everywhere," he said, "but the beast has cut the telephone, and Von Rothe blasphemes if we talk about the police. It's a queer business."
He rode off. Duncombe returned where the girl was standing. She was clutching at the branches of the shrub as though prostrate with fear, but at his return she straightened herself. How much had she heard he wondered.
"They could," he admitted, "but it is the servants' dinner hour. Don't you notice how quiet the house is?"
She was very white. She seemed to find some difficulty in speaking. There was fear in her eyes.
"It would not be safe for you to leave here at present," he said. "I am going to take you into a little room leading out of my study. No one ever goes in it. You will be safe there for a time."
"If I could sit down--for a little while."
He took her arm, and led her unresistingly towards the house. The library window was closed, but he opened it easily, and helped her through. At the further end of the room was an inner door, which he threw open.
"This is a room which no one except myself ever enters," he said. "I used to do a little painting here sometimes. Sit down, please, in that easy-chair. I am going to get you a glass of wine."
They heard the library door suddenly opened. A voice, shaking with passion, called out his name.
There was a dead silence. They could hear him moving about the room.
"Hiding, are you? Brute! Come out, or I'll--by heavens, I'll shoot you if you don't tell me the truth. I heard her voice in the lane. I'll swear to it."
Duncombe glanced quickly towards his companion. She lay back in the chair in a dead faint.
The three men were sitting at a small round dining-table, from which everything except the dessert had been removed. Duncombe filled his own glass and passed around a decanter of port. Pelham and Spencer both helped themselves almost mechanically. A cloud of restraint had hung over the little party. Duncombe raised his glass and half emptied its contents. Then he set it down and leaned back in his chair.
"Well," he said, "I am ready for the inquisition. Go on, Andrew."
Pelham fingered his own glass nervously. He seemed to find his task no easy one.
"George," he said, "we are old friends. I want you to remember it. I want you also to remember that I am in a hideous state of worry and nerves"--he passed his hand over his forehead just above his eyes as though they were hurting him. "I am not behaving to you as a guest should to his host. I admit it freely. I have lost my temper more than once during the last twenty-four hours. I am sorry! Forgive me if you can, George!"