“Sartin as stalks,” whispered the old servant. “She was all of a thrimble, as if she’d met a sperrit an’ all the words she had was ‘I seen it—I seen it all,’ an’ she yowlin’ like a banshee.”
“It’s quare we didn’t take notice to her, for she must ha’ been powerful close to see us such a night. I thought I heerd the horn, too, an’ I lavin’ the yard.”
She wint out to blow it,” whispered Peter. “Most like it was stuck in the shrubbery she was.”
“Come on thin,” growled the other; “it’s got to be done, an’ the byes is all here. Ye left the little dure beyant on the latch?”
“I did that,” responded old Peter; and then a low, soft whistle sounded in the darkness. It was a signal.
Rapidly but cautiously Harold Hayes left the window and stole across the room. He understood it all. Polly had seen the murder and had recognised the assassins. Old Dwyer was a traitor. He had slipped out and warned the ruffians of the peril in which they stood, and now they were here to seal their own safety by another crime—by the sacrifice of a life far dearer to Harold than his own.
Swiftly, silently, he sped down the gloomy passage. The lives of all beneath that roof were hanging on his speed. Breathless he reached the little door, and flung himself against it with all his weight while his trembling fingers groped in the darkness for bolt or bar.
A heavy hand was laid on the latch, and the door was tried from without.
“How’s this, Peter?” inquired the rough voice. “I thought ye said it wasn’t locked.”
“No more it is; it’s only stiff it is, bad cess to it. Push hard, yer sowl ye.”