"Keep still!" said Adele hurriedly, and she placed herself in front of Celia.
Wethermill opened the wooden door, while Celia’s heart raced in her bosom.
"I will go down and open the gate," he whispered. "Are you ready?"
"Yes."
Wethermill disappeared; and this time he left the door open. Adele helped Celia to her feet. For a moment she tottered; then she stood firm.
"Now run!" whispered Adele. "Run, child, for your life!"
Celia did not stop to think whither she should run, or how she should escape from Wethermill’s search. She could not ask that her lips and her hands might be freed. She had but a few seconds. She had one thought-to hide herself in the darkness of the garden. Celia fled across the room, sprang wildly over the sill, ran, tripped over her skirt, steadied herself, and was swung off the ground by the arms of Harry Wethermill.
"There we are," he said, with his shrill, wavering laugh. "I opened the gate before." And suddenly Celia hung inert in his arms.
The light went out in the salon. Adele Rossignol, carrying Celia’s cloak, stepped out at the side of the window.
"She has fainted," said Wethermill. "Wipe the mould off her shoes and off yours too-carefully. I don’t want them to think this car has been out of the garage at all."