She ran like one demented, and in her madness overlooked the stair top when she reached it. But the stairs would not be ignored. We saw her disappear—there was a louder shriek and then a crash—a moan and then silence.
The Tundish, with Kenneth and Ralph close behind, hurried after her.
I dragged myself to where Janet lay. The Tundish had released her bonds and had covered her once more with the sheet. She turned and opened her dear gray eyes to find me kneeling by her side.
My hour of torture was over, but as I knelt, that other great doubt that, only lovers unconfessed can know, came surging round me.
Chapter XVI.
Explanations and a Challenge
A few hours later the sad remainder of our little tennis party was gathered in the drawing-room round one of the open windows, Janet and Ethel comfortably on the settee, The Tundish and myself perched each in a corner of the broad window sill, little Allport lolling back at his ease in one of the large wicker chairs. It was both wide and deep, and, entirely unconcerned as to his lack of inches, he sat well back, his legs stuck out straight in front of him, his diminutive feet barely projecting beyond the edge of the seat.
During the evening hours a heavy haze had gathered, to thicken later into definite cloud, and now a steady rain was falling. The air was heavy with sweet rain-washed scents released from thirsty soil and reviving plants.
The smoke from our pipes floated over our heads in swirls and snakelike twists that showed up gray and blue in the fading light. Through the open window there came the welcome patter of the rain. A thrush was singing his even-song. On Janet’s lap lay the surviving tabby cat, lazily indolent under her gentle caressing hands, A sense of tranquillity and brooding peace seemed to enfold us like some quiet blessing. “Peace on earth,” sang the thrush in the tree, and “Courage and hope,” throbbed my heart in reply, whenever I looked at Janet. She was facing the light, her eyes like two clear stars, that now and again would shine into mine, when the room and its occupants would fade away leaving us alone together for a blessed brief eternity.
She had not been really hurt by Margaret’s ill-treatment, and apart from the effects of the chloroform and a bruise here and there, she was none the worse for her experience. Cold bandages, a little brandy and a couple of hours’ rest had enabled me to recover from my own collapse, which the doctor attributed as much to shock as to the blow on my head.
Margaret’s headlong fall had broken a leg and had stunned her. She regained consciousness but never her reason, and she had been taken to a neighboring asylum babbling incoherently of paraffin and vitriol.