Looking up, Miss Freyne chattered out that she had been nearly drowned, and wished it had been completely.
"If you will go out alone—" Stafford's oars were making no sound in the water. "And your boat?"
"That's somewhere near it. You're not—going to take me out again to it?" said Gheena excitedly. "I won't go! I won't go to Germany!" And she sat up. "I must tell ... they're waiting for the oil. I must tell! Oh, why—why did you?" said Miss Freyne, breaking down into unrestrained sobs. "Oh, why is it you, and why did you?"
She stopped sobbing, because it is difficult to cry comfortably when someone grips your shoulders and actually shakes you. Gheena knew that a face which she felt sure was an angry one was close to hers, and a hoarse whisper was demanding information. She gave it brokenly; she sat back with a gasp as the noiseless oars shot the boat through the water, and she could hear Stafford muttering to himself excitedly.
"Don't cry out, do you hear?" he whispered. "Not a sound, or I'll..."
Miss Freyne snapped out "Shoot me, I suppose," with rancorous dignity and as clearly as chattering teeth would allow.
"To come here ... to eat our food ... with—with us ... and give oil to that Father Christmas!" were the indistinct words which reached Basil Stafford, who was breathing heavily. The boat bumped rather sharply against the shore.
"Don't speak," said Stafford grimly, "or it's Germany for you. This way.... Don't you dare to speak."
The path in the dark might have been anywhere. Waiting for the first opportunity to slip away, Gheena was propelled along it. She heard voices, a door opened, and next minute she was in a big room, with shutters shut closely and a small fire burning in the grate.
Then Gheena, recovering, demanded liberty, for it was the drawing-room at Gurtnamurragh, and these traitors were using it to hide in her house.