“It’s strong enough,” said he. “But for all that, Mr. Ashton-Kirk, it cannot keep out thoughts; and thoughts, if they are strongly marked and along a definite line, are more to be feared than armies.”
They crossed the flagged court of which Scanlon had spoken and entered by the high, narrow door. A gloomy passage brought them to a room, the same, evidently, in which Bat had been received, for it was furnished with heavy oaken tables and chairs of ancient design, had a vaulted ceiling and was ornamented with the heads of huge stags and boars, and with trophies of arms, all of a day far past.
A girl stood at one side feeding a thrush through the bars of a basket cage; she was attired in a gown flowing and white, her hair was the colour of yellow silk, parted in the centre, and hanging down over her breast in two thick braids.
“Miss Knowles,” said Campe, and the girl turned. “A friend of Mr. Scanlon,” continued the young man, “Mr. Ashton-Kirk.”
The girl was very beautiful; her skin was like velvet, and her colour like roses. She was smiling as the crime specialist bowed to her; but upon the instant that his name was mentioned, the receptacle which held the grain she had been offering the bird fell to the stone floor and smashed; the delicate colour left her cheeks; she stood staring, her blue eyes full of consternation.
“Grace!” cried Campe, in alarm.
But in a single instant she had recovered herself; the colour rushed back to her face, the smile returned to the lips.
“It is nothing at all,” she said. “That headache of which I complained yesterday seems not to have all gone. I’ve felt a little faint several times this morning.”
“You should not be about,” said Campe, anxiously. “And perhaps it would be best if a doctor saw you.”
The girl smiled sweetly. Her teeth were magnificent; and her lips were scarlet.