"Yes," said Quinton Edge, and the girl turned and searched his face. She did not understand what she saw there, yet it contented her, and she crossed the threshold. Quinton Edge followed, reappearing almost immediately and carefully locking the door behind him. He descended the stairs and passed out to the eastern portico, where his horse should have been in waiting. It was not there, and Quinton Edge grew angry. "Kurt!" he called, once and twice and thrice. Then at last the delinquent appeared. The sullenness of sleep was still upon him, and when his master would have reproved him for his tardiness he answered back insolently.
"Enough!" said Quinton Edge, and struck him across the mouth with his riding-whip. Then vaulting into the saddle, he spurred through the gateway, riding hard for the northwest.
Old Kurt gazed after his master. "Thirty lashes at Middenmass," he muttered, "and now this—this——"
Three hours later a boyish figure scaled the wall and dropped into the sunken way. Fangs, who was sunning herself on the terrace, looked up with white teeth bared, then rose, wagging her tail in friendly greeting. But Nanna, with a hasty word to the dog, entered the house and ran up to Esmay's room. Great news indeed! But where was the child? Nanna stood stock-still, gazing stupidly around the empty room. "Esmay," she murmured, in a half-whisper, and passed out into the corridor. She went straight to the door leading to Quinton Edge's apartments. A tiny hair-pin of tortoise-shell lay on the floor. Nanna picked it up with a sob and regarded it fixedly. She knocked twice upon the door, but there was no response. She tried her strength against it, and shook her head. Nothing could be done here. She went down-stairs, and looked to see if the key of the wicket gate was hanging in its accustomed place behind the master's leather chair. It was there; she took it and let herself into the street. There was only Fangs, the great, black bitch, to watch her go, the dog whining and leaping upon the wicket gate as it swung back into place.
XXIV
THE EVE OF THE THIRD DAY
A touch upon Constans's shoulder and a voice in his ear aroused him. He sprang to his feet; the sunshine was streaming through the glazeless casements, and Constans, being yet heavy with sleep, blinked against it as a man drunken with wine. Oxenford confronted him. "The attack?" questioned Constans, and for the life of him could not help yawning prodigiously.
Red Oxenford laughed. "In that case I should have pulled your ear off instead of wasting time shouting into it. By the thunders of God, man, but you sleep soundly."
Constans was fully awake now. He glanced at the sun, which was high in the sky, and then at Oxenford's gaunt face.