"A lantern—quick! There's one at the lodge."
Lionel had to run to keep pace with her.
They found the little gothic house quite dark and the door locked. Their knocking brought no response. The only sign of life was Martin Luther, whose plaintive cries, louder every second, indicated that he was running to meet them.
"Try the back door," said Harriet. "We must get a lantern."
Lionel plunged through the blackness of the rhododendrons, not stopping to find the path. Harriet, leaning against the door, kept up a ceaseless pounding on the iron knocker. Martin Luther continued to mew.
Never before had the curate's wife heard a cat mew in that way—short, sharp cries, changing to long, mournful wails as he pushed against her in the dark or clawed at her dress. Then his voice died away as with an incredible rushing noise he dashed down the steps and across the gravel, only to return the next moment with the same sound of scrambling feet and flying pebbles.
At last her ear caught the swish of parted bushes and the tread of human feet, and Lionel's voice came from close by.
"It's locked."
"Try the windows."
"They're all fastened. What's that?" he cried.