"You swear you are Philip Vause's brother?"
"I swear it."
The key turned in the lock; then, a moment later, the voice within spoke again.
"I am a prisoner here. The door is fast on your side also. There is a bolt above."
He raised his hand as she spoke, thrust back the bolt quietly--it making no noise as it left the staple--and when this was done the door opened from within, and Andrew entered the room.
Seeing the great form before her, regarding with amazement--perhaps alarm--the bronzed face and long black hair of Andrew; observing also that the clothes he wore were torn and smirched by the efforts he had made in crossing the chasm and reaching the roof above; noticing, too, his unbooted feet--the woman raised her hand involuntarily to her breast and exclaimed, though in a whisper--
"You! You Philip's brother!"
"In truth, lady, I am. And you? There can be no mistake. You are Marion Wyatt."
"Unhappily." Then she said, still gazing up at him, "I have waited long for this release to come. Prayed night and day for it--feared at last that he would never follow nor seek me out. And now, even now, he comes not himself, but sends you. Oh, sir! why has Philip not come--or--or"--and she paused, but continued a moment later. "It cannot be that he thinks----"
"Madame," said Andrew, regarding her steadfastly--it had never dawned on him until now that she could not possibly know that Philip was in his grave--"Madame, this is no time for explanations. They will suffice when we are outside this house." And because, even as he spoke, he wondered if he knew all there was to know in connection with this woman, he added, "It is your desire to quit it, I imagine? You have no--no wish to remain?"