But it was locked.
He knocked sharply.
“Open the door,” he said, with his lips to the keyhole. “It is I—Frank.”
The key was turned, and he stepped in quickly, to stand numbed with surprise; for Lady Gowan, looking ghastly white, stood before him, without bonnet or cloak.
“Well?” she cried; “tell me quick!” and her voice sounded hoarse and strange.
“You here!” stammered Frank. “Oh, I see. Oh, mother, mother, and you have been too ill to go.”
“No, no. Don’t question me,” she said wildly. “I can’t bear it. Only tell me, boy—the truth—the truth!”
“You are ill,” he cried. “Here, let me help you to the couch. Lie down, dear. The doctor must be fetched.”
“Frank!” she cried, “do you wish to drive me mad? Don’t keep it back. I am not ill. Your father! Has he escaped?”
It was some minutes before he could compel his mother to believe that he knew nothing, and grasped from her incoherent explanations that, when she had reached the house two hours before, she had come up to the drawing-room and found Drew impatiently waiting there.