Five, ten minutes passed. And now the two reached the farther edge of the wooded park, and halted here, drawn back a little in the shadow of the trees. Before them was a narrow breadth of lawn; and, beyond, a great, rambling, turreted pile lay black even against the darkness, its castellated roof and points making a jagged fringe against the sky line.
Runnells appeared suddenly to find vent for his ill humour in a savage chuckle.
"What is it, Runnells?" demanded the Frenchman.
"I was just thinking that in the five or six years since I was here with Lord Seeton, you know, I ain't forgotten his nibs the Earl of Cloverley. I'd like to see his face in the morning! He's a crabbed old bird. My word! He'll die of apoplexy, he will! And if he don't, he won't be so keen on his 'ouse parties to visiting nabobs and cabinet ministers. He didn't send into London and get his gold service out of the bank for us when we were here."
"Perhaps," said the Frenchman gently, "he did not know that you were valeting Lord Seeton at the time—or perhaps it was because he did!"
"Aw, chuck it!" said Runnells gruffly. He stared at the black, shadowy building for a minute. Then abruptly: "It's two o'clock, ain't it? You looked, didn't you?"
"Yes," said Paul Cremarre. "I looked when we left the motor. The time's right. It was just ten minutes of two."
"Well, what the blinking 'ell's the matter now, then?" complained Runnells. "The place is as black as a cat. They're all in bed, aren't they?"
"That is not for me to say," replied the Frenchman calmly. "We will wait, Runnells."
Runnells, with another grunt, sat down on one of the bags, his back against a tree. The Frenchman remained standing, his eyes glued on the great house across the lawn.