Hamel started up, but she clutched at his arm and pulled him back. “No,” she cried, “you can’t break in! There are double doors and a wonderful lock. The boat-house is yours; the building is yours. In the morning you must demand the keys—if he does not come to-night!”
“And how are we to know,” Hamel asked, “if he comes to-night?”
“Go outside,” she whispered. “Look towards St. David’s Hall and tell me how many lights you can see.”
He drew back the bolt, unlatched the door, and stepped out into the darkness. The wind and the driving rain beat against his face. A cloud of spray enveloped and soaked him. Like lamps hung in the sky, the lights of St. David’s Hall shone out through the black gulf. He counted them carefully; then he stepped back.
“There are seven,” he told her, closing the door with an effort.
She counted upon her fingers.
“I must come and see,” she muttered. “I must be sure. Help me.”
He lifted her to her feet, and they staggered out together.
“Look!” she went on, gripping his arm. “You see that row of lights? If anything happens, if Mr. Fentolin leaves the Hall to-night to come down here, a light will appear on the left in the far corner. We must watch for that light. We must watch—”
The words, whispered hoarsely into his ear, suddenly died away. Even as they stood there, far away from the other lights, another one shone suddenly out in the spot towards which she had pointed, and continued to burn steadily. He felt the woman who was clinging to his arm become suddenly a dead weight.