She was so late, however, that her confused mind did not trouble about these things, and she sped on gracefully, soon coming in full view of the house itself. It was now almost dark, and the grounds seemed very lonely; but the presence of lights in the secluded mansion gave earnest of some one awaiting her there. She fancied she heard a noise, like the snapping of a latch or lock behind her. She turned her head, but saw no one. Fowle, hiding among the evergreens, had run with nimble feet and sardonic smile to bolt the gate as soon as she was out of sight.
And now Winifred was at the front door, timidly pulling a bell. A man strolled with a marked limp around the house from a conservatory. He was a tall, strongly built person, and something in the dimly seen outline sent a thrill of apprehension through her.
But the door opened.
“I have come—” she began.
The words died away in sheer affright. Glowering at her, with a queer look of gratified menace, was Rachel Craik!
“So I see,” was the grim retort. “Come in, Winnie, by all means. Where have you been all these weeks?”
“There is some mistake,” she faltered, white with sudden terror and nameless suspicions. “My agent told me to come here—”
“Quite right. Be quick, or you’ll miss the last train home,” growled the voice of Voles behind her.
Roughly, though not violently, he pushed her inside, and the door closed.
He snapped at Rachel: “She’d be yelling for help in another second, and you never know who may be passing.”