“Ann!” repeated the old woman more shrilly.
Ann’s voice had a muffled sound, as she answered, as if she were speaking from a great distance—
“Hey, mother, is’t you?”
“Ay, lass. There’s summat wrong. I minded a while ago to have left the passage window open, with the rain coming in. And now I find it shut, and marks of a man’s tread on the floor here!”
Ann’s answer rang out sharp and clear—
“Right, mother. I’ll see to’t! Go you back to bed!”
The old woman lingered but for one instant, turning to the right and to the left the iron stand which held her rushlight. Naturally the feeble light showed her very little. The prints of muddy boots were continued down the stairs, but she did not care to trace them out, feeling, probably, that such investigations might safely be left to the energetic Ann.
With a grunt and a muttered grumble she retreated into her own room, and Tregenna heard her draw the bolt on the inner side of the door.
He heard the click of a pistol which, as he imagined, the intrepid Ann was trying. But he felt that the moment for decisive action had come. He would not be discovered hiding behind the staircase like a thief.
Coming out of his corner, therefore, he went into the big kitchen, to present himself to the redoubtable Ann.