“No. I wouldn’t have asked such a question. How could I tell but that it might be an unwelcome one?”
It was a small thing, but somehow it seemed to Wagram to argue an uncommon thoughtfulness and delicacy of mind on the part of this girl—this daughter of a drunken, blackmailing, old ex-army vet.
“I won’t insist on blindfolding you, Miss Calmour,” he said, with a smile, “but I’ll ask you just to look out of that window for a minute.”
“Certainly,” she said. “Why, this is more than interesting.”
“That’ll do. Thanks.”
“Can I look?”
“Yes.”
The inner wall of the gallery was patterned faintly in large squares diagonally divided, so that you might see in them squares or triangles according to the caprice of the eye. Now, where one of these squares had been Delia saw a dark aperture easily large enough to admit the body of a man. It was about a yard and a half from the ground.
“What was it used for?” she said, as her eyes becoming more accustomed to the gloom she made out a narrow, oblong chamber, or rather closet, about eight feet by four, and running parallel with the wall.
“A priest’s hiding-place. There is still a sprinkling of them to be seen in our old country houses, more or less perfect still.”