Please don't bother."
The whole situation was so unexpected that only then did it dawn
on Stewart that this blacker shadow was a countrywoman speaking
God's own language. Together, Harmony a foot or so in advance,
they made the path.
"The house is there. Ring hard, the bell is out of order."
"Are you not coming in?"
"No. I--I do not live here."
She must have gone just after that. Stewart, glancing at the dark
facade of the house, turned round to find her gone, and a moment
later heard the closing of the gate. He was bewildered. What sort
of curious place was this, a great looming house that concealed
in its garden a fugitive American girl who came and went like a
shadow, leaving only the memory of a sweet voice strained with
fright?
Stewart was full of his encounter as he took the candle the
Portier gave him and followed the gentleman's gruff directions up
the staircase. Peter admitted him, looking a trifle uneasy, as
well he might with Marie in the salon.
Stewart was too preoccupied to notice Peter's expression. He
shook the rain off his hat, smiling.
"How are you?" asked Peter dutifully.
"Pretty good, except for a headache when I'm tired. What sort of
a place have you got here anyhow, Byrne?"
"Old hunting-lodge of Maria Theresa," replied Peter, still
preoccupied with Marie and what was coming. "Rather interesting
old place."
"Rather," commented Stewart, "with goddesses in the garden and
all the usual stunts.
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