There was a rustling noise—a sharp crack or two, a hand was thrown over the window-sill, and, panting with exertion, Harry clambered in.
“Harry!” cried Louise in alarm, for his acts, his furtive way of coming to the house, and his manifest agitation did not suggest innocence.
“Hush! Don’t talk aloud. Where’s the governor?”
“Father is at Mr Van Heldre’s.” Harry drew in a quick spasmodic breath. “And Aunt Marguerite?”
“In her room. But, Harry!”
“Be quiet. Don’t talk. Let me get my breath.”
Louise stood before him with her hands clasped, and a flow of agonising thoughts seeming to sweep her reason away. All was confusion, but above the flood there was one thing to which she clung—Harry was innocent. In spite of everything in the way of appearance, he was innocent; nothing should turn her from that.
“Well,” he said suddenly, “haven’t you anything to say?”
There was a savage vindictive tone in his voice which startled her more than his previous threatening way.
“Yes; where have you been? Why do you come back like this?”