The possibilities involved in a panic suddenly became all too clear in Joan’s mind. If half a dozen people lost their heads, the girl might be badly hurt.
Michael’s voice was lifted again, in a tone that would have carried through a storm at sea:
“Everybody stand fast! You’ll be trampling the girl underfoot if you don’t take care. Stand still, confound you! Pull the blinds up and throw back the curtains. It’s a moonlight night.”
There was a rustling as those nearest the windows set about the execution of his orders. Light suddenly appeared, revealing the strained faces and uneasy attitudes of the company. Joan turned to Michael.
“Come with me and put in the switch, Michael. Sir Clinton’s gone to the museum. We must get the lights on quick.”
Michael, with a word to his partner, followed his fiancée towards the door. A thought seemed to strike him just as he was leaving the room:
“Wait here, everybody, till we get the lights on again. You’ll just run risks by moving about in the dark outside. It’s nothing. Probably only a fuse blown.”
“Now then, Joan, where’s that switch?” he added as they passed out of the door.
It was pitch-dark in the rest of the house; but Joan knew her way and was able to grope along the corridors without much difficulty. As they came near the switch-box, the lights flashed up again. One of the servants appeared round a corner.
“Some one had pulled out the switch, sir,” he explained. “It took me some time to make my way to it and put it in again.”