“Hush! For heaven’s sake, quick! Hide me somewhere. Quick! Before it is too late.”
He had caught her by the arm and laid one hand upon her lips; and as she was trying to release herself, the other door opened, and Denville entered, closely followed by Frank Burnett and Richard Linnell.
“Claire! Sir Harry Payne!” cried the Master of the Ceremonies.
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Burnett, with a grin. “No murder this time, except reputation. I had made up my mind to come and stop to-night, as my wife’s here; but, after this, the sooner she’s out of this place the better. Here, call her, some of you. Where’s her room?”
Claire did not speak, but stood there, as if turned to stone, her eyes fixed upon the cold, stern face of Richard Linnell, as he stood back by the door.
“Sir Harry Payne, speak, I insist,” cried Denville fiercely. “What does this mean?”
“Hush, sir! Hush! pray, gentlemen. A little bit of gallantry, nothing more.”
“Sir!” cried Denville.
“Hush, sir, pray!” cried Sir Harry, who was white and trembling with dread. “No noise—the neighbours—the scandal. Perfectly innocent, I assure you. An assignation. I came to see Miss Denville here.”
Claire turned her eyes slowly from Richard Linnell, whose look seemed to wither her, and fixed them on the despicable scoundrel, who was screening her sister before her husband, but who would not meet her stern gaze.