They passed at length around a buttressed corner and so on to the yew-lined drive that led to the front of the house. The Gothic archway gaped wide to the spring sunshine. Olga came swiftly to it, and there stood suddenly still.
"Nick!" she said. "Nick!"
Her voice was vibrant, her eyes widely staring into the gloom within.
He slipped his arm about her, that wiry arm of great strength that had served her so often. "I am here, darling," he said soothingly.
Olga turned to him in piteous appeal. "Nick," she whispered, "where is she? Where? Where?"
He answered her steadfastly, with the absolute conviction of one who knew. "She is there beyond the Door, dear. You'll find her some day, waiting for you where it is given to all of us to wait for those we love."
But Olga only trembled at his words. "What door, Nick?" she asked. "Do you—do you mean Death?"
"We call it Death," he said.
She scarcely heard his answer. She was shaking from head to foot. "Oh,
Nick," she gasped, "I'm frightened—I'm frightened! I daren't go on!"
His arm encircled her more strongly still. He almost lifted her forward over the threshold into the cold and gloomy hall. "Don't be frightened, darling! I'm with you," he said.