They made their way to the front of the house and into the library. She turned up the electric lights and fetched a telephone book. Arnold rang up the number she showed him.
"What about the police station?" he asked, turning towards her with the receiver still in his hand. "Oughtn't I to send for some one?"
"Not yet," she replied. "We are not supposed to know. The man may have come upon some business. Let us wait and see what the doctor says."
He laid down the receiver. She had thrown herself into an easy-chair and with a little impulsive gesture she held out one hand towards him.
"Poor Arnold!" she murmured. "I am afraid that this is all very bewildering to you, and your life was so peaceful until a week ago."
He held her fingers tightly. Notwithstanding the shadows under her eyes, and the gleam of terror which still lingered there, she was beautiful.
"I don't care about that," he answered, fervently. "I don't care about anything except that I should like to understand a little more clearly what it all means. I hate mysteries. I don't see why you can't tell me. I am your friend. If it is necessary for me to say nothing, I shall say nothing, but I hate the thoughts that come to me sometimes. Tell me, why should that man have been haunting your house the other evening? What did he want? And to-night—what made him break into your room?"
She sighed.
"If it were only so simple as all that," she answered, "oh! I would tell you so willingly. But it is not. There is so much which I do not understand myself."
He leaned a little closer towards her. The silence of the room and the house was unbroken.