So together they went through the silent house and silent grounds and silent shrubbery. The red light shone full down the middle pathway to the stable door. But Brightcoat shed a softer brilliancy round about, if not so clearly and direct. But then there was no need for it as guide to-day.
The stables shone out with a certain curious light of their own—a dusky, shadowy brightness.
At a certain touch the unseen door slipped backward, and revealed the shadowy twilight within.
And as is customary with horses, they turned their graceful heads and looked with wild eyes on the newcomers, and one in the far corner neighed. But they seemed shadowy. All were shadowy. Eyes shone like carbuncles, the only distinctive feature. And there was nothing of warmth there. Everything was cold and chilly as a vault
But Brightcoat’s light was useful here. It shone in direct rays on to that little unnoticed door that was built so unobtrusively in the wall.
“There,” said Rosalie, and she touched his arm. “I went through there.”
“Strange,” said he. “I never saw that door before. How did you open it?”
“With the key of my uncle’s safe. But that has gone. I don’t know what I did with it. I was in such a hurry to get through and close it after me.”
“And the path led you to a low white house with a verandah?”
“Yes. Let us return. It is cold here. You’ll give your horses rheumatism if you keep them in so damp a place.”