They came up slowly, steadily, with no attempt at concealment. Nance could see streaks of light showing under her door. The man, whoever he was, carried a lantern or a candle.
She held her breath when the footsteps turned aside at the landing and came toward her door. They paused there, and she knew that the man would be standing within four feet of her bed. With the door open he could reach in and almost touch her.
Her heart leapt at the sound of a knock, and she had to moisten her lips before she could speak.
"Who's there?"
"Have nothing to fear. It is the Chevalier de Rothan."
For the moment she felt an irrational rush of gratitude and relief. She could have embraced the man; he seemed so much less terrible than some low gipsy or rough footpad. The mere physical fear was appeased for the moment, but it was to be followed by a dread that was more spiritual and refined.
"The Chevalier de Rothan?"
"Your very good friend—in spite of many prejudices. Miss Nance, I am here to secure you and your father. Will you wake him, or shall I?"
She swung her feet out of the bed, and sat with her arms wrapped round her.
"But what does this mean? Breaking into the house?"