He looked into the dark room. The signal was repeated, but he sat by the window like alabaster, his heart beating in his ears.
The knocking ceased, and for a long while Peter sat still as a stone. Then he sprang at the cord of the skylight window, opened it and crept out. Miranda was perched between the chimneys. It was quite dark. Peter could only see that she was staring away from him.
"Miranda!" His voice trembled and broke, but she did not move.
He knew now he had not been dreaming. Miranda, too, was changed. He felt it in the poise of her averted face and in her silence.
He waited to say he knew not what, and stayed there, a queer figure sitting astride the slates. Miranda's arm lay along the skylight. He touched her.
She caught her breath, and Peter knew she was crying.
"Miranda," he called, "why are you crying?"
She turned in the dark and a tear splashed on his hand.
"I'm not crying!" she flashed. "I thought you were never coming," she added inconsequently.