They listened. The gate of the Cliff path creaked on its hinges and fell back with a sharp click of the latch. Lucy turned and saw a small woman's figure entering the garden from the Cliff. He strode on toward the house, unwilling to be observed and overtaken by any guests of the hotel.
Marston followed him slowly, pondering at each step of the way.
He heard footsteps, quick stumbling footsteps, and a sound like a hoarse, half-suffocating breath behind him. Then a woman's voice, that sank, stumbling, like the footsteps, as it spoke.
"Mr. Lucy," it said, "is it you?"
Marston went on.
Lucy was in the room with his sister. He was sitting with his back to the open window as Marston came in by it.
The voice outside was nearer; it whispered, "Where is Mr. Lucy?"
"Somebody's looking for you, Lucy," said Marston.
And the three turned round.
Mrs. Hankin stood in the window, holding on to the frame of it and trembling. Her face, her perfect face, was gray, like the face of an old woman. It was drawn and disfigured with some terrible emotion.