“Richard—the danger is Richard,” she said to herself, recognizing that she was helpless in face of that danger.
Hours passed but no footstep sounded on the stairs, and no voice spoke out of the darkness; only the moon breaking through the clouds flooded the room with light, showing them to each other. They became hungry, but they forgot their hunger, remembered the passage of time and as soon forgot it, grew sleepy and did not think of sleep.
A clock struck and they counted eleven strokes.
“You must be hungry,” said Anne.
“Yes, I am,” answered Grandison, surprised, but he took an apple from his pocket, and when they had shared it their hunger seemed to be satisfied.
A clock struck, and they lost count of the strokes.
“It is midnight,” said Anne. “I must go back to my hotel.” But she did not move, and an hour later she had consented to stay the night, had undressed in the dark and had got into the bed, while Grandison had wrapped himself in his overcoat and, covered with the piece of drugget, was stretched out upon the floor.
For a long while Anne went on stroking his hair, and when at last they fell asleep he was still grasping her hand in both of his and holding it to his lips.
“What’s the matter?”
A strangled cry of “Help!” was ringing in her ears, but she understood that it was her own voice that she had heard.