Philip hastened back down the landing and found Margaret swaying in the doorway. ‘You heard that?’ he cried, pushing her forward into the room. ‘He may be letting him out.’
‘What are we to do?’ she gasped. ‘Can’t we stay here? Lock the door?’
‘No, we can’t do that. Mustn’t let him loose downstairs. And the others don’t know.’ He saw there was a key inside the door. ‘We shall have to get downstairs at once. I can’t go and tackle the two of them up there.’
The whisper came from the bed again. ‘Yes, go. Lock me in—and take the key— with you.’
Philip drew back the door, took out the key, gave the candle to Margaret and motioned her forward. She turned swiftly in the doorway, however, and called back: ‘Oh, are you sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Yes—all right—take care—good luck.’ The voice seemed to come from miles away, through a great darkness, the last friendly whisper of humanity. The next moment they were outside, with the door locked behind them.
There was a moment’s silence, during which their ears seemed to catch the last faint vibrations of that voice from the darkened bed. They were hurrying towards the stairs, but they had not gone more than a few paces when the silence was broken. A yell of laughter went pealing through the house. It came from somewhere above, perhaps through an open door. It was the sudden laughter of madness. At the sound of it, the mind, hearing its own knell ringing in an empty sky, ran affrighted, and the heart, awaking out of its dream of peace and kindness, stood still.
CHAPTER XII
Sir William heard the knocking again, sat up and rubbed his eyes, stared at the door for a minute, recovering his wits, then marched across and opened it wide. ‘Hello!’ he cried, as the bedraggled pair staggered past him into the room. ‘And where the devil have you two been?’ He followed them across to the fire.
‘It’s a long story,’ Penderel began; his face was pale and a little drawn, but his eyes were dancing.