The Canon formed “Why?” with his lips.
“Just now, as I was passing the garden here coming back from the Deanery, I heard a most dreadful cry. I thought at the time that it came from an animal, but—now——”
The Canon stared at him almost sternly.
“We’d better not waste time,” he said. “I wish you’d gone in then.”
And he turned bruskly. He had opened the door, and was about to step on to the broad path which divided the front of the house from the lawn, when he heard steps approaching swiftly on the gravel.
“Some one coming!” he said. “Stop where you are, Darlington. I believe its . . .”
Before he could finish his sentence Rosamund came upon him out of the darkness. Her face was distorted, so distorted that he scarcely recognized it. It seemed to have shrunk and sharpened, and it had the look of fierceness which is characteristic of the faces of starving people. She put out both her hands as she came up to him, pushed him with violence into the house, and followed him.
“Lock the door!” she whispered. “Lock it! Lock it!”
“But——”
Her voice rose. She seemed savage with fear.