"They could," he admitted, "but it is the servants' dinner hour. Don't you notice how quiet the house is?"
"Yes."
She was very white. She seemed to find some difficulty in speaking. There was fear in her eyes.
"It would not be safe for you to leave here at present," he said. "I am going to take you into a little room leading out of my study. No one ever goes in it. You will be safe there for a time."
"If I could sit down—for a little while."
He took her arm, and led her unresistingly towards the house. The library window was closed, but he opened it easily, and helped her through. At the further end of the room was an inner door, which he threw open.
"This is a room which no one except myself ever enters," he said. "I used to do a little painting here sometimes. Sit down, please, in that easy-chair. I am going to get you a glass of wine."
They heard the library door suddenly opened. A voice, shaking with passion, called out his name.
"Duncombe, are you here? Duncombe!"
There was a dead silence. They could hear him moving about the room.