‘I know where he is,’ Philip announced. ‘I’ve heard him and seen his room, at least the door of it. He’s upstairs, isn’t he, behind those bolts?’
‘Yes—he is there,’ Sir Roderick replied. ‘He’s been locked in now—for several days—has been very violent—I understand. Only Morgan—can look after him—such times. He doesn’t attempt—to hurt Morgan—even during—the worst attacks. And Morgan—half savage—very superstitious—is devoted to him. Otherwise—Saul couldn’t have—stayed here.’ Obviously he could only speak with an effort now, and the pauses seemed to be longer between each whispered phrase. It seemed to be sheer weakness, however, and not actual pain that was mastering him.
‘But if he did get out, we could lock ourselves in somewhere, couldn’t we?’ Margaret herself was whispering now. She was cold and felt all hollow inside.
‘You could,’ came the answer, so softly. ‘But if he—found his way—downstairs—to a fire—or lights—or even matches—I think—he might set fire—to the house. He has tried—before—a sacrifice—cleansing by fire—he called it. Up there—in his room—there is nothing—no fire nor matches—that is why—we had electric lighting.’
Margaret bit her lips. She wanted to grab hold of Philip and run away, anywhere, back into the darkness and rain, through the flood if necessary.
Philip concentrated his mind, the prey of huge trampling images, with desperate swiftness. Something had to come yet. This voice, calling so weakly from some remote high place, seemed to be letting down a fine silken cord; it floated before him, a silver thread in the mirk; and he felt he had to grasp it, hold on to it, or the world was lost. ‘But those bolts will hold, surely,’ he cried. ‘That door seemed strong enough.’
‘It is—but this is—what I wanted—to tell you. If Morgan—is so bad—if he’s not asleep—or come—to his senses—I think he might—open the door. You will have—to watch him.’
‘Philip!’ Margaret gave a little scream, and he felt her hands fumbling on his coat. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He must see if Morgan was still there—though there hadn’t been much time for him to recover—and then find the others and decide what to do. ‘Stay here,’ he said to Margaret. ‘I’ll go and have a look at him.’ He dashed out into the landing, and she followed as far as the door.
A few steps in the flickering candle-light and he saw that Morgan was not there. ‘Morgan!’ he cried, without thinking. Before he could reach the place where Morgan had been lying, where the broken lamp and its splintered glass told their tale, a door on the left opened and there peered out a face like paper. It was Mr. Femm.
‘He’s just gone,’ Mr. Femm gabbled reedily. ‘Gone upstairs. I heard him go. He’s gone to let Saul out, I know he has. And Saul’s mad, mad. Get out of the way. Wait for him downstairs. There are three of you. Wait for him there. Kill him!’ And the face was gone, the door banged to and locked.