"None. I got on to Manfield, and they're sending over at once. Then I rang up the Bell Inn, and asked to speak to Strange." He took off his overcoat, and Celia saw that his good-humoured countenance was looking decidedly grim. "And Strange," he said, "is not there."
Chapter Sixteen
Someone was calling him. Peter could hear his name being spoken, but the voice was very far away. He became aware of a dull ache in his head, and opened his eyes with a groan. The voice sounded nearer; he identified it gradually as his sister's, and as the mist cleared from before his eyes he saw her face above him. Puzzled, he stared up at her. She was stroking his cheek. "Darling, you're better now, aren't you? Peter, speak to me, please speak to me!"
He blinked; his head was splitting, he thought. He said thickly: "Hullo… Margaret! What - what's happened?"
She appeared to be crying. "Oh, thank God!" she said. "I thought you were dead. Oh, my dear, how did he get you?"
He moved his head, staring round him. He was lying on a bare stone floor, in a queer cell-like room which he never remembered to have seen before. His brain felt clogged, but bit by bit his memory was returning. He struggled up on his elbow, grasping Margaret's wrist. "You called me!" he said. "I couldn't find you. Then I…' He broke off, as the whole scene came rushing back to him. "My God, where are we?" he said. "What happened to you?" He put his hand to his head feeling it tenderly. "Lord, my head! Something must have knocked me out. How did I get, here? How did you get here?"
She helped him to his feet. He was still feeling sick and dizzy, and was glad to sink down on to a chair by the plain deal table, and to rest his head in his hands. Margaret knelt beside him. "It was the Monk," she said.
"I heard you call," he said. "Couldn't find you. Then I saw your handkerchief."
"Where?" she asked.
"By the panel. Made me think. Realised there must be a way we hadn't found. Got on to the moulding. An apple. Did you twist it?"