She got up quickly and began to clear away the meal, and, for the first time for many years, Ray helped her.
“A terrible night,” she said, coming back from the kitchen. “The wind burst open the window and blew out the lamp, and the rain is coming down in torrents!”
“All nights are good nights to me,” said Ray, and in his chuckle she detected a little sob.
No word had been spoken since they met of his terrible ordeal; it was tacitly agreed that that nightmare should remain in the region of bad dreams, and only now and again did he betray the horror of those three weeks of waiting.
“Bolt the back door, darling,” said John Bennett, looking up as she went out.
The two men sat smoking, each busy with his own thoughts. Then Ray spoke of Lola.
“I do not think she was bad, father,” he said. “She could not have known what was going to happen. The thing was so diabolically planned that even to the very last, until I learnt from Gordon the true story, I was under the impression that I had killed Brady. This man must have the brain of a general.”
Bennett nodded.
“I always used to think,” Ray went on, “that Maitland had something to do with the Frogs. I suppose he had, really. I first guessed that much after he turned up at Heron’s Club—what is the matter?”
“Ella!” called the old man.