"I didn't kill him," MacLeod was saying, as he mounted the steps.
Rose shivered a little.
"No," she insisted. "But he died."
MacLeod was beguilingly entertaining at dinner that day, and in the afternoon he and Peter went to drive. At supper, too, he was in his best mood, and that evening Rose, worn out by the strain of his persistent dominance, escaped to her own room. There she sat and counseled her tense nerves. She was afraid. Then when she heard the closing of grannie's door, she slipped downstairs to her tryst. The night was dark, and there was a grumble of thunder from the west. In her excitement she took swift steps, as if all her senses were more keenly awake than they had been in the light, and kept the path unerringly. She had no doubt that he was there, but he called to her before she could ask. His voice vibrated to the excitement in her own heart.
"Good child, to come!"
She found her chair and sank into it.
"I had to come." At once she felt light-hearted. There seemed to be no bounds to his protection of her. "I have told Electra."
"I knew you would."
"She has told Peter. They know it now,—all but grannie,—dear grannie."
"She can wait. She won't flicker. She won't vary. Nothing can shake grannie's old heart."