Dorothy was in the garden, and, seeing her, came to the gate. Mrs. Vansittart had changed her riding-habit for one of the dark silks she usually wore, but she had forgotten to put on any gloves.
“Come,” she said rapidly, taking Dorothy's hand, and holding it—“come to the seat at the end of the garden where we sat one evening when we dined alone together. I do not want to go indoors. I am nervous, I suppose. I have allowed myself to give way to panic like a child in the dark. I felt lonely in Park Straat, with a house full of servants, so I came to you.”
“I think there is going to be a thunderstorm,” said Dorothy.
And Mrs. Vansittart broke into a sudden laugh. “I knew you would say that. Because you are modern and practical—or, at all events, you show a practical face to the world, which is better. Yes, one may say that much for the modern girl, at all events—she keeps her head. As to her heart—well, perhaps she has not got one.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Dorothy.
They had reached the seat now, and sat down beneath the branches of a weeping-willow, trimly trained in the accurate Dutch fashion. Mrs. Vansittart glanced at her companion, and gave a little, low, wise laugh.
“I did well to come to you,” she said, “for you have not many words. You have a sense of humour—that saving sense which so few people possess—and I suspect you to be a person of action. I came in a panic, which is still there, but in a modified degree. One is always more nervous for one's friends than for one's self. Is it not so? It is for Tony Cornish that I fear.”
Dorothy looked steadily straight in front of her, and there was a short silence.
“I do not know why he stays in Holland, and I wish he would go home,” continued Mrs. Vansittart. “It is unreasoning, I know, and foolish, but I am convinced that he is running into danger.” She stopped suddenly, and laid her hand upon Dorothy's; for she had caught many foreign ways and gestures. “Listen,” she said, in a lower tone. “It is useless for you and me to mince matters. The Malgamite scheme is a terrible crime, and Tony Cornish means to stop it. Surely you and I have long suspected that. I know Otto von Holzen. He killed my husband. He is a most dangerous man. He is attempting to frighten Tony Cornish away from here, and he does not understand the sort of person he is dealing with. One does not frighten persons of the stamp of Tony Cornish, whether man or woman. I have made Tony promise not to leave his room to-day. For to-morrow I cannot answer. You understand?”
“Yes,” answered Dorothy, with a sudden light in her eyes, “I understand.”