Her fingers seemed suddenly inspired with diabolical strength and energy. Strange chords crashed and broke beneath them. She played some unfamiliar music with tense and fierce energy. Suddenly she paused and rose to her feet.
“Come out on to the terrace,” she invited. “You are not afraid of cold?”
He followed her without a word. She opened the French windows, and they stepped out on to the long, broad stone promenade. The night was dark, and there was little to be seen. The light was burning at the entrance to the waterway; a few lights were twinkling from the village. The soft moaning of the sea was distinctly audible. She moved to the edge of the palisading. He followed her closely.
“You are right, Mr. Hamel,” she said. “I think that I am more afraid of him than any woman ever was of any man in this world.”
“Then why do you live here?” he protested. “You must have other relations to whom you could go. And your brother—why doesn’t he do something—go into one of the professions? He could surely leave easily enough?”
“I will tell you a secret,” she answered calmly. “Perhaps it will help you to understand. You know my uncle’s condition. You know that it was the result of an accident?”
“I have heard so,” he replied gravely.
She clutched at his arm.
“Come,” she said.
Side by side they walked the entire length of the terrace. When they reached the corner, they were met with a fierce gust of wind. She battled along, and he followed her. They were looking inland now. There were no lights visible—nothing but dark, chaotic emptiness. From somewhere below him he could hear the wind in the tree-tops.