“Whose orders?”
“Deveny’s. You ain’t to go into the stable.”
She hesitated, afflicted with a queer sensation of weakness and indecision.
It was her fear of Deveny, she supposed, that made her feel that way, together with the conviction that Deveny must have known that she had been in the room next to the one he had taken, even before he had ascended the stairs. It seemed to her that this deliberate interference with her must be inspired by evil intentions, and for an instant panic overtook her.
Then, yielding to the flash of anger that surged over her, she drew the small revolver she always carried with her on her rides, and presented it. She stepped back a little, so that the man might not strike the weapon from her hand, and spoke shortly, commandingly to him.
“Get away from that door!”
“Shootin’, ma’am?” he drawled. “Oh, don’t!”
He grinned at her and calmly began to roll a cigarette, at which action she gulped with dismay, wheeled swiftly, and walked to the stairs. She went up proudly enough, her head held high, for she divined that the man would be watching her. But when she entered her room her pride forsook her, and she sank into a chair by the east window, dismayed and frightened.
While she sat there the slatternly woman slowly opened the door and stuck her head in. She grinned widely at Barbara.
“Goin’ ridin’ this mawnin’, deary?”