With a quick breath and a fluttering of her heart Christabel felt for the switch.
"It will be all right," she murmured; "the other one will fancy that the light is necessary. Courage, my dear courage, and the game is yours. Ah!"
The intruder dropped inside and pulled the window behind him. Evidently he was on familiar ground, though he seemed to be seeking an unfamiliar object. Christabel's hand stole along to the switch; there was a click, and the alcove was bathed in brilliant light. The intruder shrank back with a startled cry. He rubbed his dazed eyes.
"Why not come in through the front door, Mr. Littimer?" Christabel drawled, coolly.
Frank Littimer had no words for a moment. He was wondering who this woman was and what she was doing here. American, evidently, by her accent, and also by the revolver that she handled so assuredly.
"That is the way you used to enter," Christabel proceeded, "when you had been out contrary to parental instructions and the keepers expected to have a fracas with the poachers. Your bedroom being exactly opposite, detection was no easy matter. Your bedroom has never been touched since you left. The key is still outside the door. Will you kindly enter it?"
"But—" Frank stammered. "But I assure you that I cannot—"
"Take the Rembrandt away. You cannot. The frame is of iron, and it is fastened to the wall. It would take an experienced carpenter quite a long time to remove it. Therefore your mission has failed. It is very annoying, because it puts the other man in a very awkward position. The position is going to be still more awkward presently. Please go to your room."
"My dear lady, if my father knows that I am in the house—"
"He is not going to know that you are in the house, at least not for some little time. And when you see him it will be better not to say more than is necessary. Later on you will recognise what a friend I am to you."