Mr. Grimethorpe sprang up with a blasphemous ejaculation, and made for the door, shouting "Jabez!" Lord Peter stared after him for a moment, and then stared round the room.
"Something fishy here," he said. "Fellow knows somethin'. Murderous sort of brute. I wonder—"
He peered round the settle, and came face to face with a woman—a dim patch of whiteness in the thick shadow.
"You?" she said, in a low, hoarse gasp. "You? You are mad to come here. Quick, quick! He has gone for the dogs."
She placed her two hands on his breast, thrusting him urgently back. Then, as the firelight fell upon his face, she uttered a stifled shriek and stood petrified—a Medusa-head of terror.
Medusa was beautiful, says the tale, and so was this woman; a broad white forehead under massed, dusky hair, black eyes glowing under straight brows, a wide, passionate mouth—a shape so wonderful that even in that strenuous moment sixteen generations of feudal privilege stirred in Lord Peter's blood. His hands closed over hers instinctively, but she pulled herself hurriedly away and shrank back.
"Madam," said Wimsey, recovering himself, "I don't quite—"
A thousand questions surged up in his mind, but before he could frame them a long yell, and another, and then another came from the back of the house.
"Run, run!" she said. "The dogs! My God, my God, what will become of me? Go, if you don't want to see me killed. Go, go! Have pity!"
"Look here," said Peter, "can't I stay and protect—"