"I'll find them for you; it won't delay us a minute."
Lanyard swept the darkness roundabout with an extended hand, which encountered nothing; then, satisfied that the landing was now practically deserted, drew the woman out of her corner and coolly wound an arm round her.
"I'll be better able to avoid losing you, this way," he explained. "Hope you don't mind."
"No-o," said the small voice—"I think—I believe I rather like it."
For all that unmitigated mirk Lanyard experienced no difficulty in finding the way back to the right door.
"Hello?" he called, pausing on its threshold. "I've got Mrs. McFee here, safe and sound. Somebody make a light: I noticed candles on the mantelpiece . . ."
Nothing answered him. But this he had discounted. Releasing the woman and bidding her stop where she was, he struck a match whose flare revealed a room deserted.
Folly McFee gave a gasp of astonishment: "Where are they?"
"In sound American slanguage," Lanyard replied, crossing to the fireplace and applying the flame to the wicks of moulded and tinted candles which decorated its mantel—"our friends have flown the coop. You see, Morphew just now told me he is the proprietor of these premises; so I'm inclined to suspect the lights were put out to permit him to make a clean getaway. . . . But here's your wrap." He draped the sable robe round the woman's shoulders. "And your bag," he added, finding the same where Folly had left it.
"But I don't understand," she protested, lifting a bewildered small face to the light.