The word was unnecessary, for I was staring fixedly in the direction of that which evidently had occasioned her uneasiness.
It was a small square window, so low-set that I assumed it to be that of a cellar, and heavily cross-barred.
From it, out upon a tangled patch of vegetation, shone a dull red light!
"There's no other light in the place," my companion whispered. "For God's sake, what can it be?"
My mind supplied no explanation. The idea that it might be a dark room no doubt was suggested by the assumed role of Carneta; but I knew that idea to be absurd. The red light meant something else.
Evidently the commencing of operations before all lights were out was irregular, for Carneta said slowly—
"We must wait and watch the light. There was formerly a moat around the Gate House; that must be the window of a dungeon."
I little relished the prospect of waiting in that swamp-like spot, but since no alternative presented itself I accepted the inevitable. For close upon an hour we stood watching the red window. No sound of bird, beast, or man disturbed our vigil; in fact, it would appear that the very insects shunned the neighbourhood of Hassan of Aleppo. But the red light still shone out.
"We must risk it!" said Carneta steadily. "There are French windows opening on to that verandah. Ten yards farther around the bushes come right up to the wall of the house. We'll go that way and around by the other wing on to the verandah."
Any action was preferable to this nerve-sapping delay, and with a determination to shoot, and shoot to kill, any one who opposed our entrance, I passed through the bushes and, with Carneta, rounded the southern border of that silent house and slipped quietly on to the verandah.