The wind had risen and was moaning mournfully around the house, causing the windows to rattle, and creating weird noises in the stillness of the night.
Suddenly a door creaked below. Both men started, and looked at one another.
“Listen! What’s that?” asked Mansell in an awed voice.
“Nothing; merely the wind,” the other replied sharply.
Mansell tried to smile, and said—
“I suppose you’re right, but I feel as nervous as a cat.”
His companion, who had driven the carriage, and who had taken Dolly’s purse, handkerchief, and a letter from her pocket, and was scrutinising them carefully, uttered an exclamation of disgust and annoyance. The house being empty and untenanted, the wind, which had now increased to almost a hurricane, howled and sighed dismally.
“If anyone should find the brougham outside it would strike them as strange, wouldn’t it?” suggested Mansell.
“Never fear; we’re perfectly safe. It’s a by-road, and not a soul comes this way. Besides, whom do you expect would walk about this lonely part at such an hour?”
Mansell crossed to where the girl lay, and, taking up the candle, gazed into her face.