Lord Stair, gazing at her, saw the look in her eyes he had seen in his sister’s and in his own; it was as if there fronted him the evil genius of his house; once this woman had looked at him differently; as he stared at her he recalled that other expression, the other look her brown eyes had once held in place of the madness that flashed in them now.
Certainly, she was mad; he saw her against the background of the polished stairway where the flames were reflected; he saw her lean back against the balustrade with those wild eyes upon him in her uplifted face; he noticed the crimson light on the long line of her throat and in the curve of her white lips.
“Lord Stair.”
She bent forward, touched him, the hideous noise of flames gaining power, the shouting and cracking of timbers filled the air with a terrible menace.
“Lord Stair.”
Her fingers touched his arm, closed round; and he could not escape from her face, turn his eyes away.
“Speak to me,” she said; she was as calm as she had been frantic; her long hair, loosened, glowed a dusky red behind her marble white face. But he thought of his wife and would not.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
He caught hold of her, not tenderly nor roughly, indifferent, merely.
“Make haste—down the stairs,” he said. “On the first landing you may cross the library and gain the garden.”