She made no reply, but stood with her hands clasped together, listening to the sharp voice and the quick tapping repeated on the panel. Both ceased after a few minutes, and Aunt Marguerite’s door was heard to close loudly.
“I could not talk to her now,” muttered the girl. “She makes me so angry. She was so insulting to Mr Leslie. But he deserved it,” she said aloud, with her cheeks burning once more, and her eyes flashing, as she drew herself up. “My brother—a common thief—the man who injured Mr Van Heldre! It is not true.”
She started violently and began to tremble, for there was a sharp pattering on her window panes, as if someone had thrown a few small shots. Would Duncan Leslie dare to summon her like that? The pattering was repeated, and she went cautiously to the window, to make out in the gloom a figure that certainly was not that of Leslie.
She opened the casement with nervous anxiety now.
“Asleep?” cried a hasty voice. “There, stand aside—I’m coming up.”
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 a quick spasmodic breath.