Another figure came sturdily into view with the words, and Maggie turned sharply back to meet it.
“Oh, Elsie, I thought you were asleep!” she said.
“I was,” said Elsie. “And then I found you weren’t there. For goodness’ sake, be sensible and come to bed! What is the good of hanging about out here?”
“I’m worried about Oliver,” Maggie said rather piteously. “Will there be a row, do you think?”
“Good gracious, I don’t know,” said Elsie. “Don’t care either. Oliver’s quite capable of taking care of himself. If he isn’t—well, I’ve no use for him. Come along to bed, do, and don’t make a fuss about nothing!”
“Arthur was in a bad mood this evening,” protested Maggie. “I expect that’s why Oliver went without asking. He knew it wouldn’t be any good. Oh, I wish he hadn’t done it. I’m so afraid——”
She left the sentence unfinished, for suddenly there sounded a movement from below, followed by the tread of a man’s feet on the stairs.
“Come on!” said Elsie, and the two girls fled back to their room.
The impulse to follow their example seized upon Frances, but in a moment she restrained it. The chances were very much against his seeing her, and she had fled from him once that day. Pride came to the aid of her courage, and she remained where she was.
He came up the stairs heavily, as if weary. He carried no light, but he had not extinguished the glimmer below. Presumably he had left this for Oliver’s benefit. Further along the passage, the moonlight filtered in through a latticed window, but the stairs themselves were in almost complete darkness.