'It was my fault,' Margaret answered from the door. 'I should not have come.'
Even after her escape, something about him still pleased her. The maiden that had been brought to bay was scarcely safe, before the human woman began to be drawn to him again by that sympathy of flesh and blood that had nearly cost her more than life.
But Margaret revolted against it now, as soon as she knew what it was that made her speak kindly.
'I'm not afraid of you,' she said, almost coldly, 'but I want you to let me out, please.'
He straightened himself and turned slowly to her. The dark red colour was gone from his cheeks, he was suddenly pale and haggard, and if he had not been really young, he would have looked old; as it was, his face was drawn and pinched as if by sharp physical suffering. He drew two or three quick, deep breaths as he came towards her.
He stood beside her a moment, and then without a word, he unfastened the door. It swung inwards and stood open. Margaret saw that it was thickly padded to prevent any sound from passing, and that there was another padded door beyond it which she had not noticed when she had entered. He understood her look of doubt.
'That one is open now,' he said. 'It locks and unlocks itself as I shut or open the inner door.'
He was willing to let her see how completely she had been cut off from the outer world; and she realised the truth and shuddered.
'Good-bye,' she said, abruptly, as if he were not to go downstairs with her, and she made a step to pass him.
He thrust his arm out across the way, resting his head against the door-post. She started, almost nervously, and then stood still again and looked at him.