She leant against the wall and tried to think. Who had, who could have removed the chair? She could not guess. And thinking only increased her eagerness, her anxiety to enter and be safe. She must get in somehow, even at a little risk.
She tried to take hold of the sill above her, and so to raise herself to the window by sheer strength. But she could not grasp the sill, though she could touch it. Still, if she had something in place of the chair, if she had something a foot high on which to raise herself she could succeed. But what? And how was she to find anything in the dark? She peered round, compelling herself to think. Surely she might find something. With a single foot of height she was saved. Without that foot of height she must rouse the house; and that meant disgrace and contumely, and degrading suspicion. Her cheeks burned at the prospect. For no story, no explanation would account satisfactorily for her absence from the house at such an hour.
She was about to grope her way round the house to the yard at the back—where with luck she might find a chicken coop or a stable bucket—when five paces from her the latch of the wicket clicked sharply. By instinct she flattened herself against the wall; but she had scarcely time to feel the sudden leap of her heart before a mild voice spoke out of the gloom.
“I’m afraid I have taken your chair,” it murmured, “pray forgive me. I am Mr. Sutton, and I—I am very sorry!”
“You followed me!”
“I——”
“You followed me!” Her voice rang imperative with anger. “You followed me! You have been spying on me! You!”
“No! No!” he muttered. “I meant only——”
“How dare you! How dare you!” she cried in low fierce tones. “You have been spying on me, sir! And you removed the chair that—that I might not enter without your help.”
He was silent a moment, standing, though she could not see him, with his chin on his breast. Then: