The colour was coming back to Margaret's face. She sat up. "Sorry, all of you. No, I'm perfectly all right now, Peter. Truly. Yes, I have, Celia. The Monk. And I made a dash for the house, and - and then - Mr. Titmarsh came up."
"And I am much distressed to think that I may have been the innocent cause of your alarm," Mr. Titmarsh put in. "If I had not obtained permission from your good brother-in-law to pursue my search in his grounds, I should be even more distressed."
"No, it wasn't you," Margaret said. "It was a cowled monk, just as Aunt Lilian described." She looked round. "Where is Aunt Lilian?"
"She had a headache, and went up to bed early," Celia replied. "But darling, how awful for you! Oh, we can't stay any longer in this beastly, hateful house!
"But Margaret, where's the car?" Charles asked. "Why were you on foot?"
"I ditched it," said Margaret fatalistically.
"Oh!" said Charles. "I suppose it seemed to you to be the only thing to do, but - don't think I'm criticising - why?"
This had the effect of making her laugh, and a great deal of her self-possession was restored. "I didn't do it on purpose. I made a muck of the turn at the gates, and one of the back wheels skidded into the ditch. It'll have to be pulled out. So then I had to walk up to the house. And all this happened." She got up. "I say - do you mind if I don't talk about it any more to-night? I feel a bit queer still, and I think I'd like to go up to bed."
"Of course you shall," Celia said instantly. "Don't worry her with questions, you two. Come along, darling."
At the door Margaret looked back. "Oh, I got the revolvers. They're under the back seat. I thought I'd better tell you."