"Don't know anything about that, sir. Our superior ordered us here, and is coming on himself. We must examine the fastenings of this window, sir, by the lady's leave."
They passed up the room, and Lady Level left it, followed by Mr. Ravensworth. Outside stood Deborah, aghast.
"They have been in the kitchen this ten minutes, my lady," she whispered, "asking questions of us all—Mr. Sanders and Mrs. Timms and me and cook, all separate. And now they are going round the house to search it, and see to the fastenings."
The men came out again and moved away, Deborah following slowly in their wake: she appeared to regard them with somewhat of the curiosity we give to a wild animal: but Mr. Ravensworth recalled her. Lady Level entered the room again and sat down by the fire. Mr. Ravensworth again observed that he must be going: he had barely time to walk to the station and catch the train.
"Arnold, if you go, and leave me with these men in the house, I will never forgive it!" she passionately uttered.
He looked at her in surprise. "I thought you wished for the presence of the police. You said you should regard them as a protection."
"Did you send for them?" she breathlessly exclaimed.
"Certainly not."
She sank into a reverie—a deep, unpleasant reverie that compressed her lips and contracted her brow. Suddenly she lifted her head.
"He is my husband, after all, Arnold."