Meggie looked at Abbershaw.
‘If we could only get out,’ she murmured. Abbershaw nodded briskly. Conjectures and theories could wait until afterwards; the main business in hand at the moment was escape, if not out of the house at least back to the others.
He turned to the old woman.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting out through there?’ he suggested, indicating the inner room in the doorway of which she still stood.
She shook her head.
‘There’s nobbut a fire-place and a door,’ she said, ‘and you’ll not get through the door because I’ve bolted it and he’s locked it. You can have a look at the fire-place if you like, but the chimney’ll only land you up on the roof even if you could get up it; best wait till Wednesday till my son comes.’
Abbershaw was inclined to enlighten her on the chances her son was likely to have against the armed Herr von Faber, but he desisted, and contented himself by shaking his head. Meggie, ever practical, came forward with a new question.
‘But do you eat? Have you been starved all this time?’ she said.
Mrs Meade looked properly aggrieved.
‘Oh, they bring me my victuals,’ she said; ‘naturally.’