So Brand went to the door, and the girls listened in nervous foreboding.
They heard their father say:
"Hello, Jenkins, what is the matter now?"
Jenkins was a sergeant of police whom they knew.
"Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brand, but an odd thing has happened. A lady, a stranger, met me ten minutes ago, and asked me to direct her to your house. I did so. She appeared to be in great trouble, so I strolled slowly after her. I was surprised to see her looking in through the window of your sitting-room. As far as I could make out, she was crying fit to break her heart, and I imagined she meant to knock at the door, but was afraid."
"Where is she? What has become of her?"
Brand stepped out into the moonlight. The girls, white and trembling, followed.
"Well, she ran off down the garden path and tumbled in a dead faint near the gate. I was too late to save her. I picked her up and placed her on a seat. She is there now. I thought it best, before carrying her here—to tell you you—"
Before Brand moved, Constance ran out, followed by Enid. In a whirl of pain, the lighthouse-keeper strode after them. He saw Constance stooping over a motionless figure lying prone on the garden seat. To those strong young arms the slight, graceful form offered an easy task.
Brand heard Enid's whisper: