Someone had passed through the garden gate and was hurrying towards the house. I heard a rustle on the lawn, the swift pad of footsteps across the verandah, then, breathless and dripping wet, a slim, solitary figure stumbled into the light.
It was Christine.
Dressed only in the scantiest of swimming costumes, with the water still trickling from her bare arms and legs, she stood there, white-faced and horror-struck, gazing at the sight before her.
"The candle!" I stammered wildly. "Quick, put it out!"
With a faint splutter the wick suddenly heeled over, and a thin wisp of smoke shot up into the air.
In a flash Christine seemed to realise the peril in which we stood. Almost before the words left my lips she had darted across the room, and the next moment she was stamping out the smouldering paper with her bare feet.
I remember making a queer sound which I think was intended for a protest. For an instant she leaned against the wall, trembling and sobbing from the reaction; then with a kind of pitiful blind haste she groped her way to my side and began to unfasten the handkerchief which Manning had knotted across my mouth.
"What have they done to you?" she faltered. "Oh, what have they done to you?"
I gulped down a mouthful of sorely needed fresh air.
"Christine, my darling," I whispered, "how in heaven's name did you get here?"