"Now run!" whispered Adele. "Run, child, for your life!"
Celia did not stop to think whither she should run, or how she
should escape from Wethermill's search. She could not ask that her
lips and her hands might be freed. She had but a few seconds. She
had one thought--to hide herself in the darkness of the garden.
Celia fled across the room, sprang wildly over the sill, ran,
tripped over her skirt, steadied herself, and was swung off the ground
by the arms of Harry Wethermill.
"There we are," he said, with his shrill, wavering laugh. "I
opened the gate before." And suddenly Celia hung inert in his
arms.
The light went out in the salon. Adele Rossignol, carrying Celia's
cloak, stepped out at the side of the window.
"She has fainted," said Wethermill. "Wipe the mould off her shoes
and off yours too--carefully. I don't want them to think this car
has been out of the garage at all."
Adele stooped and obeyed. Wethermill opened the door of the car
and flung Celia into a seat. Adele followed and took her seat
opposite the girl. Wethermill stepped carefully again on to the
grass, and with the toe of his shoe scraped up and ploughed the
impressions which he and Adele Rossignol had made on the ground,
leaving those which Celia had made. He came back to the window.
"She has left her footmarks clear enough," he whispered. "There
will be no doubt in the morning that she went of her own free
will."
Then he took the chauffeur's seat, and the car glided silently
down the drive and out by the gate. As soon as it was on the road
it stopped. In an instant Adele Rossignol's head was out of the
window.
"What is it?" she exclaimed in fear.
Wethermill pointed to the roof. He had left the light burning in
Helene Vauquier's room.
"We can't go back now," said Adele in a frantic whisper. "No; it
is over. I daren't go back." And Wethermill jammed down the lever.
The car sprang forward, and humming steadily over the white road
devoured the miles. But they had made their one mistake.