[VIII]
Anthony Durrell had brought the candle from the parlour. That stately person De Rothan lowered his dignity to the cautious level of drawing off his boots before following Durrell up the stairs.
Nance's room was at the western end of the long upper gallery. De Rothan and the scholar had to pass the door of the girl's room, for the stairhead lay close to it. They were within three steps of the landing when Durrell heard the lifting of a latch.
Instantly he blew out the candle, and, reaching back in the darkness, thrust De Rothan gently backward.
"Is that you, father?"
Nance had opened her door an inch or two, but no light showed.
"Yes, child. Some one must have left the window open at the end of the gallery. The draught has blown out my candle."
"I thought I heard voices, and the sound of some one moving."
"Rubbish! You ought to be asleep. I was reciting Virgil to myself. Go to bed, child."
"Shall I get you a light?"