"Strange," she said, carelessly, though she was obviously disturbed. "Surely you were mistaken. Some trick of the brain, a freak of imagination."
Geoffrey laughed. Young men at his time of life, men, who follow healthy pursuits, are not given to tricks of the imagination. His pulse was beating steadily; his skin was moist and cool.
"I am certain of it," he said. "What is that noise?"
Something was calling down the garden. Long before this time the good people of the farm had gone to bed.
"Shall I go and see what it is?" Geoffrey asked.
"No, no," Mrs. May whispered. "Stay here, I implore you. I would not have had this happen for anything. What am I saying?"
She passed her hand cross her face and laughed unsteadily.
"There are secrets in everybody's life and there are in mine," she said. "Stay till I return. There will be no danger for me, I assure you."
She slipped out into the darkness and was gone. Geoffrey stooped and bent over a dark blot or two that lay on the stone still at the bottom of the window.
"Blood," he muttered, "blood beyond a doubt. It was no delusion of mine."