But he came back with water for the kettle, and pointed out that there was tea in the basket near the fire.
Then he left again. Gheena heard the muffled voices and silence fell. She was far too angry to be frightened.
Wrapping herself as thoroughly as possible in a blanket, she put the kettle on, piled up the fire and stamped wrathfully.
The events of the night now felt to her as though she had been through an evil dream which could not be real—a submarine close in—waiting for petrol—and all their suspicions realized. Basil Stafford was that vile but necessary thing, a spy.
"As I actually met him going out to it," said Gheena wearily—"actually met him—there is no mistake now."
Gheena did not cry out. Patriotism fought with something which for a time worsted it completely. Then, rousing herself, she cooed dolefully, listening to the echo of the cry ringing through the empty house.
Inspiration came to her. The iron fastenings of the old shutters, if the wood could be burnt round them, might be wrenched free. Gheena seized a small piece of broken iron paling which someone had used as a poker and stuck it into the glowing heat.
In a very short time she had burnt quite a good sized hole, and the room was acrid with the smell of charred wood. Someone had left a candle on the table. Gheena lighted it to peer at her work. Having seen with dismay that it would take another half-hour before she could even hope to move the bar, Gheena swung round to see Stafford's face thrust into the room.
"Lights!" he said bitterly. "I might have known I could not trust you."
Gheena repeated the word "trust" rather blankly, and gathered her blanket round her.