Lowndes was silent.
“And, pray, if I may make so bold,” went on the innkeeper, in a threatening tone, after a few minutes’ pause, “what was she like, this woman?”
“I couldn’t see. It was dark, you know.”
“But you’re sure it was a woman, of course?”
There was, perhaps, a note of interest in Claris’s irony this time.
“Yes,” answered Lowndes, with a little more decision, “I am sure of that. She moved like a woman, and had a woman’s head, and a woman’s skirts. I saw her head as she got out of the window. I saw her skirts moving about before me when I got down to the ground.”
“And that’s all you’ve got to say? Now, Nell, tell us what you saw.”
And he turned triumphantly to his niece.
Nell was standing opposite the window, and the gray light of the morning came over the top of the shutters full on her face. It was white, weary, and there were dark lines under the eyes, which were heavy and lusterless. Every word she uttered bore—so the young man thought—an odd stamp as of truth and sincerity.
“I woke up suddenly, hearing a loud noise. I saw the door fall in and some one rush through and get out of the window. I sprang up and looked out, and saw this gentleman sliding down from the roof of the outhouse on to the ground.”