"I suppose you were lurking about the house," she went on, her face darkening with sudden anger, "Mr. Lester, I know, has a fondness for doing that. No doubt you're also an amateur detective."
But Godfrey had got back his self-possession.
"Something of the kind," he admitted good-humouredly. "We heard you scream and rushed to your assistance."
"You were very kind!" she sneered; then her face changed. "The door was locked," she said. "I locked it when I came home. How did you get in?" She glanced through the dining-room and saw that the door was still closed.
"It wasn't locked at the time we entered," explained Godfrey coolly. "But that was nearly an hour ago. We were not lurking about the house, Miss Kingdon, when we heard you scream. We were in the cellar."
He was watching her keenly, but she showed no sign of understanding.
"In the cellar?" she repeated, and scanned our soiled clothes. "What were you doing there?"
"We were making some investigations," answered Godfrey composedly. "Your sister discovered us there and took a shot at my friend here," and he pointed to my bleeding hand. "Luckily her aim was bad. Didn't you hear the shot?"
"No," she said, staring from one to the other of us, her anger and insolence quite gone. "I heard no shot. I was asleep in the bed here—the door was closed. Why did she shoot at you? Did she take you for burglars?"
"No," said Godfrey, "I hardly think she took us for burglars."