The women in straight white nightgowns stood on the gallery huddled together. The dreadful darkness lifted, they leaned over the railing, their faces pallid between hanging locks of hair, dropping a shower of questions on the men below. One of them was hysterical and gave forth a sobbing wail, and Williams shouted with angry authority:
“Keep quiet up there. Nothing’s the matter. Didn’t you hear it was a flashlight?”
Some one strangled a scream—Williams thought it was Flora but could not be sure. Then they made a simultaneous retreat to the bedrooms for negligées and slippers, while the men, gathered round Shine, listened to his explanation. No, he’d seen nothing and heard nothing, but he’d got the picture all right, whoever it was, he had them. Now he’d go and develop it—he could do that in a few minutes—and there was the projector in the corner he could use, throw it on to something where they’d all see. A sheet over that screen by the desk would do. And when it’s on there, large as life, there won’t be any use lying, there’ll be nothing for it but to come across.
They urged him out, they’d attend to everything: hurry up with the picture. Williams was unable to hide his elation. His idea, augmented by Shine’s, was a bull’s-eye hit, and his voice showed an exultant excitement as he called to Miss Pinkney to bring a sheet. Rawson’s satisfaction was less apparent, but his eye was alight with anticipation. If it was the boy, he had run back up-stairs, for no exit had been attempted through the kitchen. With the whole house astir he’d be afraid to come down and they had him safe as a rat in a trap. Impatient at the wait for Shine’s reappearance he left the room, saying he was going to the boat-house for a word with Patrick.
Bassett saw him go and made no move—he could not leave Anne now. The detonation and fire-work illumination that had made him leap for the path had roused Patrick. As he ran, not knowing what had taken place in the house, he had heard the man’s grunt of returning consciousness and a hoarse expletive thrown into the night. Rawson would find him awake and his dereliction never be known. But this mattered nothing to Bassett. An inner anguish held him; his eyes and Anne’s had met as she stood on the gallery and for the despair in hers he had no consolation. He saw Miss Pinkney and Williams pulling out the screen and draping it with a sheet, he saw Stokes walking stiffly to a chair, his hands curved over its back, his face a curious shining white—he saw and his mind registered nothing. If it was Joe, if it was Joe—what would become of her, what could he do?
The noise of the women’s footsteps on the stairs came in a descending rush. They burst in, their voices going before them, a scattering of gasped explosive utterances.
Flora went to Stokes and caught at his arm. “What is it, what is it?” she kept repeating, jerking at his arm, till he started away from her pushing her off.
Williams heard and answered with veiled gusto. Some one had been walking about the house at night against orders. It had been important to find out who was doing it and so Mr. Shine had set his camera and caught them, him or her—Williams’ voice was heavy on the last pronoun—in a flashlight picture. Mr. Shine was developing it now and as soon as he was ready they’d see it thrown on the sheet.
“It wasn’t me,” came Mrs. Cornell’s voice in loud relief.
“Nor me, nor me.” Flora’s followed.