He moved off, swaying to the rhythm of his song, and possessed by his thought: he turned to look at his captives as he passed, but there seemed to be no speculation in his eyes, only a glare, such as the petroleuses have, in their eyes, in revolutions, in the days of frenzy. He passed out of that door through which the body of Hilary had been dragged. Sard reckoned that doors led out of the central house into the houses on each side. He made the note in his mind, “the man controls two houses; perhaps three; there may be twenty or thirty of them, living here.” The door clicked to behind the Holy One; Sard was alone with Margarita.
“Mr. Harker,” she said, “does anybody know that you are here?”
“No,” he answered. “It was false.”
“Or that my brother was here?”
“Nobody knows. And it is my fault. I ought not to have let your brother into this house without the police.”
“Why did you?”
“We heard you cry out.”
“I cried because I saw that I was near the street,” she said. “They were bringing me in here from inside there. I hoped that someone might hear.”
“We did hear. If we shout now, someone may hear.”
“At this time in the morning?”