“Drop it, Dan!” I said.
He turned on his heel suddenly, and stammered out, “You're right.”
But he had turned into John Ford's arms.
The old man stood there like some great force, darker than the darkness, staring up at the window, as though stupefied. We had not a word to say. He seemed unconscious of our presence. He turned round, and left us standing there.
“Follow him!” said Dan. “Follow him—by God! it's not safe.”
We followed. Bending, and treading heavily, he went upstairs. He struck a blow on Pasiance's door. “Let me in!” he said. I drew Dan into my bedroom. The key was slowly turned, her door was flung open, and there she stood in her dressing-gown, a candle in her hand, her face crimson, and oh! so young, with its short, crisp hair and round cheeks. The old man—like a giant in front of her—raised his hands, and laid them on her shoulders.
“What's this? You—you've had a man in your room?”
Her eyes did not drop.
“Yes,” she said. Dan gave a groan.
“Who?”