As she crossed the farmyard she heard the rattle of a chain, and a dog strained at her with a savage yelp. But so far from this unexpected incident increasing her terror, it brought almost a sense of comfort, and she stopped, whistled, and called him by a name. There never was a dog that could scare Sybil Lansdown. She went fearlessly towards the yelping beast, and in a minute the big retriever was rubbing himself against her knee and quivering under her caressing hand.
As she stood to release the chain that fastened him, she felt a piece of rope on the ground, and she found it was about six feet long, evidently a disused clothesline. This would make a capital leash, and she slipped the end through the D of the dog’s collar and went on her way at a slower pace and happier than she had been these twelve hours past.
By this approach she came to Selford Manor from the wings, and had to turn abruptly to the right before she was at the front of the house. Selford Manor presented an unbroken front save for its porticoed entrance, of long, narrow, and rather ugly windows. It had been partly rebuilt in the reign of Queen Anne, and its architect, by some unhappy trick of fancy, had produced all that was least lovely of that period. A narrow flowerbed ran under the windows, and a broad stone path ran parallel with its façade. Along this she walked and she did not attempt to move noiselessly. Suddenly she heard the dog growl and felt the leash grow taut. She stopped and looked round, but there was nothing suspicious in sight. It might have been a fox, she thought, slipping from one of the bush clumps which dotted the park, but he was pointing straight ahead.
Until now the windows had been blank and lifeless, but a few paces on she saw a gleam of light, and moved on tiptoe towards the window, which was the third from the entrance door. She looked into a room panelled from ceiling to floor. A candle burnt on the big oak table, which was its principle, indeed, its only, article of furniture. At first she saw nothing, and then a movement near the wide, open fireplace caught her eye, and only in time did she check the scream which rose to her lips.
A man was coming out of the shadow of the fireplace; a big lion-headed man, with a long yellow beard, and hair that fell in waves over his shoulders. He wore a pair of ragged canvas shorts that hardly reached to his bare knees, but for the rest the body was bare. The muscles rippled under the fair skin, they stood up in his arms like huge ropes; she looked, and for some queer reason was not afraid. Unaware that he was observed, the strange creature crept stealthily from his place of concealment, and, taking up the candle in his thin hand, blew it out. In that moment she had a glimpse of the vacant face and the wide, staring blue eyes that gazed unseeingly into space. She held the dog tight by the muzzle to prevent his betraying her presence, and, turning, went back the way she had come, until she reached the edge of the farmyard. Should she arouse the caretaker, or should she go on to the nearest village, taking the dog with her for protection?
She felt the cord in her hand tighten, and, with a savage snarl, the retriever leapt at something she could not see. And then she heard the sound of footsteps coming from the direction of the drive, and she found her voice at last.
“Who is there?” she demanded huskily. “Don’t come any nearer.”
“Thank God!” said a voice, and she nearly swooned with relief, for the man who had come out of the night was Dick Martin.
XXVI
It seemed to Captain Sneed that there was little excuse for his sometime subordinate taking the girl in his arms unless he was properly engaged to her; for Mr. Sneed was a stickler for the proprieties, and though during his life he had appeared a score of times in the role of rescuer, he had never felt it necessary either to embrace (he called it “cuddle” vulgarly) or to hold the hand of the rescued.
“Don’t tell me now,” said Dick. “We’ll get you some food. Poor child. You must be famished!”
“Wait!”
His hand was gripping the long steel bellpull when she caught it.
“There’s somebody in there,” she said rapidly and almost incoherently. “A strange man. I saw him through the window.”
Disjointedly she described what she had seen, and he did not betray his concern.
“Some tramp,” he suggested when she had finished. “Were any of the windows open?”
She shook her head. She was disappointed that he took her news so calmly.
“No, I haven’t seen an open window.”
“It may be a friend of the caretaker’s,” said Dick, and pulled the bell.
The hollow clang came back to him faintly.
“Anybody asleep in the house will hear that.”
His arm was about the girl. She was still trembling violently and was on the verge of a breakdown, he guessed. His hand was raised to ring again when he heard a sound of feet in the stone hall and a voice demanded:
“Who is there?”
“Mr. Martin and Miss Lansdown,” said Dick, recognizing the caretaker’s voice.
Chains rattled, a lock was turned, and the door opened. The caretaker was dressed in his shirt and trousers, and had evidently come straight from his bed. He blinked owlishly at the party and asked the time.
“Come in, sir,” he said. “Is anything wrong?”
“Have you any friends staying with you?” asked Dick the moment he was inside the door.
“Me, sir?” said he man in surprise. “No,” and with unconscious humour,
