Outside there are loud hoarse cries, heavy blows, and trampling feet, the indescribable horror and confusion of a fierce fight fought with blind rage on both sides.
It cannot be that her father and Horace—for on the servants she does not count at all—are keeping all these men at bay so long!
The suspense becomes torture. She feels that at any risk she must know how things are going, and, cautiously opening the door, she looks out.
The hall is full of police; most of the attacking party have been disarmed—a few have escaped, but she does not know that; three men, however, are making a pretty tough fight for it still. But even as Honor stands and looks on, powerless in her dismay, it is over; the men are struck down and secured.
"This is no sight for you, Honor," a man's voice says suddenly, and, looking up, she sees Brian Beresford before her, with an ugly cut on the temple, from which the blood is flowing freely.
"You!" she gasps, holding her hands out to him with a gesture infinitely touching in one so cold and proud as Honor. "Oh, Brian, I have been wanting you so! I—I thought you would never come back!"
"You see you were mistaken," he says coolly. How the man's pulse are throbbing, how the welcome in her glad sweet eyes has thrilled him, no one looking at him could divine. "I said you were not so unprotected as you imagined," he adds, looking round with a grim smile. "We got here in time to foil the rascals—thanks to Aileen!"
"Why, what had Aileen to do with it? She went home hours ago."
"No, she did not. She crossed the mountain to Drum—a stiff climb for a woman of her years—and gave us notice that the house was to be attacked some time to-night, and off we came."
"Gave you notice?" the girl repeats. She looks dazed and faint, as well she may—a hollow-eyed, white-faced wraith of a girl, in her creased white gown.