“Shelter!” There was a bitter laugh in the voice that echoed the word. “Shelter?” it repeated. “Yes; you shall have shelter. Come in!”
The grip on her arm pulled her towards the door, but she resisted.
“No, thank you,” she replied, trying to release herself. “The storm is now nearly over. I will find my way home.”
But the hands held her strongly. “Not yet,” her captor returned. “You must come in, I have something to say to you.”
Philippa was now almost within the doorway. “What do you want?” she demanded, with an effort to keep under her agitation.
“Come in,” replied the other, “and I will tell you. It is useless to resist. I could kill you where you stand if I chose.”
The words were hissed out in the very boiling heat of passion. Bewildered and frightened, yet conscious of no offence, Philippa had suffered herself to be drawn a foot or two over the threshold. By a quick movement the other woman contrived to close the door, which shut noiselessly as though protected from banging. “Come with me,” she said; “I must speak to you.”
It was pitch dark, but the grip on Philippa’s arm, which never relaxed, guided her along what seemed to be a passage, till a sudden turn brought them to a stop. Then her arm was released, and the other’s voice said—
“Stay, till I strike a light.”
Next moment a match blazed and a candle was lighted. It showed to Philippa’s look of anxious, breathless wonder a small oak-panelled room and the form of a girl like herself, the dark, resentful face of Royda d’Ivady.