“Yes.” Florence sprang to her feet. “We must go at once.”
The moon was out now; the storm had passed. Quietly enough they started down the winding stairs. Yet startling developments awaited them just around the corner.
In the meanwhile on the city streets the voice of the tumult had died to a murmur. Here came the rumble of a passing train; from this corner came the sound of hammers dismantling grandstands that the morning rush might not be impeded. Other than these there was no sign that a great city had left its homes and had for once taken one long interested look at itself only to return to its homes again.
As Florence and Jeanne stepped from the door of the blockhouse they were startled by the sound of voices in low but animated conversation.
“Here, at this hour of the night!” At once Florence was on the defensive. The fort, she knew, was not yet open to the public. Even had it been, located as it was on this desolate stretch of “made land,” it would be receiving no visitors at midnight.
“Come!” she whispered. “They are over there, toward the gate. We dare not try to go out, not yet.”
Seizing Jeanne by the hand, she led her along the dark shadows of a wall and at last entered a door.
The place was strange to them; yet to Florence it had a certain familiarity. This was a moment when her passion for the study of history stood her in good stead.
“This is the officers’ quarters,” she whispered. “There should be a door that may be barred. The windows are narrow, the casements heavy. Here one should be safe.”
She was not mistaken. Hardly had they entered than she closed the door and let down a massive wooden bar.