"What's all the shindy?" called out Denny. "Who's doing revolver practice in the wood? And how the dickens did she get there, Charlie?"
But when the still figure on the roof saw me, the impassivity of it vanished. Euphrosyne leant forward, clasping her hands, and said to me:
"Have you killed him?"
The question vexed me. It would have been civil to accompany it, at all events, with an inquiry as to my own health.
"Killed him?" I answered gruffly. "No, he's sound enough."
"And—" she began; but now she glanced, seemingly for the first time, at my friends below. "You must come and tell me," she said; and with that she turned and disappeared from our gaze behind the battlements. I listened intently. No sound came from the wood that rose gray in the new light behind us.
"What have you been doing?" demanded Denny, surlily; he had not enjoyed Euphrosyne's scornful attitude.
"I have been running for my life," said I, "from the biggest scoundrels unhanged. Denny, make a guess who lives in that cottage."
"Constantine?"
"I don't mean him."