He heard the door creak gently. It then came open with so little sound as to thrill him with surprise. A faint thread of light gleamed fitfully. But whoever was the visitant, he was accompanied by a silence so profound as to fill Gervase Heriot with wonder. It was not thus that his jailers had been wont to visit him.
“Mr. Heriot.”
The name was breathed rather than spoken. There was a curious familiarity in the voice as it stole through the darkness. His heart seemed to stop beating.
He tried to answer, but could not.
“Mr. Heriot.”
Beyond the faint rays of a half-shuttered lantern was the outline of a dark form.
“Mr. Heriot.”
His name was being breathed in his ears. A hand had touched him.
“Oh, it is you!” were the first words his tongue could find.
“Do not speak,” whispered Anne Feversham. “Do not make a sound. But if you would live follow close without a question.”