"Grace, my darling, is that you?" I called in a low voice.
"Yes, Herbert. Oh, please be quick. I am fancying I hear footsteps. My heart is scarcely beating for fright."
But despite the tremble in her low, sweet voice my ear seemed to find strength of purpose enough in it to satisfy me that there would be no failure from want of courage on her part. I could just discern the outline of her figure as she leaned over the balcony, and see the white of her face vague as a fancy.
"My darling, lower the line to pull the ladder up with—very softly, my pet—there are iron hooks which make a noise."
In a few moments she called: "I have lowered the line."
I felt about with my hand and grasped the end of it—a piece of twine, but strong enough to support the ladder. The deep, blood-hound-like baying of the dog recommenced, and at the same time I heard a sound of footsteps in the lane.
"Hist! Not a stir—not a whisper," I breathed out.
It was the staggering step of a drunken man. He broke maudlingly into a song when immediately abreast of us, ceased his noise suddenly and halted. This was a little passage of agony, I can assure you! The dog continued to utter its sullen, deep-throated bark in single strokes like the beat of a bell. Presently there was a sound as of the scrambling and crunching of feet, followed with the noise of a lurching tread; the man fell to drunkenly singing to himself again and so passed away up the lane.
Caudel fastened the end of the twine to the ladder, and then grunted out: "All ready for hoisting."
"Grace, my sweet," I whispered, "do you hear me?"