Like a faithful but heart-broken hound, he obeyed.
“You may stay here to-night,” she said; “your bedroom is at the top of the stairs. I hope you sleep well. If you want anything, ring the bell. Good-night.”
He turned wearily toward the door.
“This is not Diana.”
His dejection would have touched a heart of stone. Diana was unmoved. She heard his door close, went silently up the stairs and slipped a key into the lock. He heard, too late, the grating of steel against steel. Before he could reach the door the lock snapped.
“Who is that—who has locked the door? Open it at once.”
“It is I,” said Diana in a low voice.
“But, Diana, this is extraordinary!”
“I do it for your own protection,” she whispered through the keyhole. “Uncle Isaac does not like you—and he is armed.”
A silence.