“Yes—yes,” panted the girl. “What is it?”
“Help!”
And then, more loudly,—
“Let me out, pray.”
“Oh,” moaned the girl, “what does it mean?”
“Ahoy there!” came more plainly now. “Whoever you are, get a boat, and go off to the cutter White Hawk. Can you hear?”
“Yes, yes,” said the girl huskily, as a horrible suspicion ran through her mind.
“Tell Lieutenant Brough that Mr Raystoke is a prisoner, kept by the smugglers, and then show his men the way here.”
There was a pause, for Celia could make no reply; she knew who Mr Raystoke was, and it seemed horrible to her that the frank, good-looking young midshipman should be kept a prisoner in such a tomb-like place as that.
“Don’t, don’t say you will not go!” came up in the smothered tones. “You shall have a reward.”