"Look here," he said, "seriously, you'd better go back. This isn't any lark, and I won't have you taking chances."
There was a silence while he heard the rain beating on his hat. Only that lonely light shone over the rainsheets flickering white across the meadows. When she answered, her voice was small and cool and firm.
"I know it as well as you do. But I've got to know. And you've got to take me, because you don't know how to get to the Governor's Room unless I show you the way. - Checkmate, dear.
She began to splash ahead of him up the slope of the meadow. He followed, slashing at the soggy grass with his cane.
They were both silent, and the girl was panting, when they reached the gates of the prison. Away from firelight, you needed to deny to yourself several times that there could be nothing supernatural about this old house of whips and hangings. Rampole pressed the button of his flashlight. The white beam ran along that green-fouled tunnel; probed it, hesitated, and moved forward.
"Do you suppose," the girl whispered, "it's really the man who-?"
"Better go back, I tell you!"
"It's worn off," she said in a small voice. "I'm afraid.
But I'd be more afraid to go back. Let me get a grip on your arm and I'll show you the way. Careful.-What do you suppose he's doing up there? He must be crazy to risk it."
"Do you suppose he can hear us coming?"