“Nonsense, man! We’ll both go then.”
“Don’t make a noise,” said a dazed voice. We left that huddled figure and stole upstairs—thickly carpeted stairs, luckily. The door we wanted was half open, and the room behind it lighted. On the threshold stood a slim white figure, bare-footed; bare-throated.
“What is it, father?” she called in a whisper. “Whom have you been talking to?” I pushed Davies forward, but he hung back.
“Hush, don’t be frightened,” I said, “it’s I, Carruthers, and Davies—and Davies. May we come in, just for one moment?”
I gently widened the opening of the door, while she stepped back and put one hand to her throat.
“Please come to your father,” I said. “We are going to take you both to England in the Dulcibella—now, at once.”
She had heard me, but her eyes wandered to Davies.
“I understand not,” she faltered, trembling and cowering in such touching bewilderment that I could not bear to look at her.
“For God’s sake, say something, Davies,” I muttered.
“Clara!” said Davies, “will you not trust us?”