"Certainly. Half a minute. What's the matter?"
"Nothing," she said. "Hurry!" The key turned in the lock and she was gone. I dressed with a haste that made my fingers clumsy, and ran down-stairs. The bustle in the house had quieted into an irregular murmur.
Miss Tabor was waiting for me in the hall below. The lights were not on, and I could see only that she was wrapped in something long and dark, her hair gathered into a loose knot above her head. Perhaps only the dim light made me imagine traces of tears.
"Thank you for being so ready," she began in a quick undertone. "Now, listen! you must—"
"Tell me what's the trouble," I broke in. "Is it burglary, or is somebody taken suddenly ill?"
"There isn't any trouble," she repeated. "You must believe that, and you must do as I tell you. I'm terribly sorry, but it's impossible for you to remain here any longer. You must go away—now, at once, and without knowing or asking anything. Of course there's a good reason, and of course you can be trusted not to talk or inquire. That's all. It's perfectly simple; there's nothing really surprising about it."
"You mean I'm to leave this minute—in the middle of the night?"
"Yes; now. Don't wonder or worry. Think as well of us as you can—don't think about us at all! There's nothing the matter. I ought to have known. Accept my apologies for all of us, and—good-by." She held out her hand.
"That's all very well," I said. "Of course I'll go if you wish it, and ask no questions. Only tell me when I can see you again, and if there's anything in the world I can do for you. I'll be staying at the inn."
A latch-key clicked behind us, and the man I had seen at the gate tiptoed in. "All right?" he whispered.