She looked up with a flushed face, full of sensitive feeling.
“I am sorry and sad with thinking of things which can’t be undone,” she said softly; “but I am not frightened.”
He put his hand gently upon her head. She fancied that she heard him murmur: “God bless you.” In a few moments, however, he withdrew his hand abruptly, and said that he must “be off.”
“And you must go out of this place,” he continued in his harder tone. “We don’t allow intruders here, you know.”
He led her up the stone staircase to the panel-door, which he unlocked. Then he helped her through into the gallery, and said “Good-night” in his usual matter-of-fact, brusque manner. But Freda was not to be repulsed. Before he could close the door, she caught his hand, and held it firmly, forcing him to listen to her.
“Crispin,” she whispered, “remember what I said. John Thurley was kind to me. Don’t let them hurt him. Promise.”
But he would not promise. His face grew stern again, and he put her off with a laugh as he freed his hand.
“Don’t worry yourself with silly fancies,” he said shortly. “He’s all right.”
He closed the door sharply and fastened it. Freda remained for a few moments listening to his footsteps as he went down the stone stairs. Then remembering with excitement, that “Crispin” had forgotten to ask her how she got in, and that the way through the library into the locked-up portion of the house was still open, she went downstairs, and passed again through the door among the bookshelves.
She would try and get down to the scaur by the secret way the smugglers used.