And now Peggy Camp began to descend the vine; in reaching out to take a fresh hold, she slipped and would probably have fallen had not a firm hand caught and held her. A frightened little cry came to her lips; but a voice, almost in her ear, said:
“Don’t be alarmed; I am a friend.”
But the words were unheeded; the terror of a presence so near to her and so unsuspected overcame all else; she swung herself down to the ground with the celerity of fear, and George, when he had also descended, found her gone. For a moment he stood trying to pierce the gloom in all directions; then a now familiar sound came to him—the rasping, complaining squeak of neglected hinges. A few steps brought him to the door through which he had first seen the candle-light; slipping within, he closed it behind him.
“Once more,” said he, calmly, “I ask you not to be alarmed. You have no occasion for it.” With the deftness that comes of experience he kindled a blaze; the candle end was still in its place upon the upturned cask, and lighting this, he looked about him.
Peggy stood a dozen feet away, her eyes fixed steadily upon him; the tilt of her chin and the proud pose of her young body told as plainly as words could have done that though she might be well-nigh sick with terror, still she would not show it. George regarded her for a moment or two in silence; then he said:
“I fancied that I would find you here.”
“And I,” flashed she, “was sure that you would be at no great distance.”
There was something in her manner and voice that affected him unpleasantly; he felt his face flush hotly.
“Oh, indeed!” was all that he could find to say in return. “And may I ask why?”
“Because,” said Peggy, coldly, “there are underhand things being planned.”