They had got the fire well under, and were hopeful of extinguishing it without much further damage. There was little danger of its attacking the house on account of the stone passage and stairs.
So much Herbert Karne learnt from the eager servants. Then he went back to the brougham to take Lady Marjorie into the house.
Celia, in a loose dressing-gown, with her hair flowing over her shoulders, met them on the stairs.
“Oh, Herbert, I am so glad you have come!” she exclaimed, with a sigh that was almost a sob. “The Raffaelle—where’s the key? Go quickly; you may be able to save it yet.”
Her brother could not take in her meaning at first, but suddenly comprehension dawned upon him.
“Good heavens, yes! The Duke of Downshire’s picture! He will never forgive me if that gets burnt.”
“Where is the key?” repeated the girl, excitedly.
“I have it here in my pocket. But it is a patent lock; the firemen won’t be able to manipulate it. I shall have to do it myself;” and tossing his silk scarf to his sister, he dashed down the stairs.
Celia drew Lady Marjorie into the library, and gave her a chair by the window overlooking the studio. Her face was pale and anxious; she looked as if she had received a painful shock.
“I have persuaded Miss Wilton to go back to bed,” she said, sinking on to the couch with a shiver. “She has such a bad cold. Isn’t this dreadful, Lady Marjorie? I shall never feel safe here again; and I shall be so anxious for Herbert when I am away. It is incendiarism, you know.”