Wrayford felt his way down the length of the boathouse, and softly opening the balcony door looked out on the lake. A few yards away, he saw the launch lying at anchor in the veiled moonlight; and just below him, on the black water, was the dim outline of the skiff which the boatman kept to paddle out to her. The silence was so intense that Wrayford fancied he heard a faint rustling in the shrubbery on the high bank behind the boat-house, and the crackle of gravel on the path descending to it.
He closed the door again and turned back into the darkness; and as he did so the other door, on the land-side, swung inward, and he saw a figure in the dim opening. Just enough light entered through the round holes above the respective doors to reveal Mrs. Stilling’s cloaked outline, and to guide her to him as he advanced. But before they met she stumbled and gave a little cry.
“What is it?” he exclaimed.
“My foot caught; the floor seemed to give way under me. Ah, of course—” she bent down in the darkness—“I saw the men oiling it this morning.”
Wrayford caught her by the arm. “Do take care! It might be dangerous if it slid too easily. The water’s deep under here.”
“Yes; the water’s very deep. I sometimes wish—” She leaned against him without finishing her sentence, and he put both arms about her.
“Hush!” he said, his lips on hers.
Suddenly she threw her head back and seemed to listen.
“What’s the matter? What do you hear?”
“I don’t know.” He felt her trembling. “I’m not sure this place is as safe as it used to be—”