His hand grasped her wrist, not roughly, but compellingly. "What did you see? You must tell me."
She looked at him, trying to read his face in the moonlight. "The Monk," she answered, in a low voice.
"Damnation!" Michael muttered. "Where?"
She pointed the way she had come, and as though by doing it she conjured up a presence, footsteps came to their ears.
Without ceremony Michael pulled her quickly into the shadow of the rhododendron bush. She glanced at him, and saw that his eyes were fixed on the bend in the avenue. A moment later a figure in a large ulster came into sight, peering about.
"Miss Fortescue!" called Mr. Ernest Titmarsh. "Miss Fortescue! Is there anything the matter? Tut, tut, I made sure I saw her!"
The grip on Margaret's wrist was removed; there was a movement beside her, she looked quickly round, and found that she was alone. As silently and as unexpectedly as he had appeared, Mr. Michael Strange had vanished.
Feeling utterly bewildered, and not a little shaken, Margaret stepped out into the moonlight, and waited for Mr. Titmarsh to come up with her. "I'm here," she said, with the calm of reaction.
He hurried up, butterfly net in hand. "Dear, dear, I did not at once perceive you. But what is the matter? I heard you call out, and saw you running. I do trust you did riot catch sight of me, and take me for a ghost?"
"Mr. Titmarsh, did you cross the avenue down there a moment ago?" she asked. "Going towards the chapel?"