Then he stood by, gazing with an uncontrollable interest upon the white, delicately chiseled face of the unconscious Lois.
“She has been alarmed by the storm?” he said presently, as Lois began to show symptoms of returning life. “You must not remain here.”
“How can we escape?” demanded Blanche.
“By the way I came. It leads by a succession of corridors to a ruined abbey, from whence again you can reach the Hall by passing through a labyrinth of secret vaults and passages.”
Blanche turned pale. Even this place, insecure as the shelter was, did not appear so alarming as the way of escape indicated.
Paul Desfrayne smiled—that half-melancholy, winning smile that had such a charm of its own.
“It sounds rather terrifying,” he said gently. “But as I see you have let your boat drift away, you cannot reach the house by way of the lake. Even if you had your boat, the waters are too dangerous to be trusted, and this storm may not abate for a couple of hours. Do not be afraid. I know every turn well, for I used to come here constantly when a boy. There is no other road to the house. I presume you have come from the Hall?” he abruptly asked. “I was informed that Miss Turquand had come to stay for a few days there, and so I supposed——”
“We rowed across the lake only about half an hour ago, and then the sky looked as clear as—as if it were never going to rain any more,” Blanche explained.
“You have no wraps of any kind?” he added, glancing with an odd sort of half-paternal compassion at the silken draperies of Lois, and the cloudy azure-blue and white skirts of her beautiful friend.
Before Miss Dormer could reply, if reply were needed—for nothing in the shape of protection against bad weather, except one large sunshade, was visible—Lois opened her eyes.