It needed that ludicrous interlude to restore Leslie’s courage; for she could not be amused and afraid at the same time.

Perhaps Dick was waiting below, she thought, and, swinging herself over the sill, she reached out her foot, found the top rung of the ladder and came down. Harry was standing on the grass-plot, curiously alert and watchful.

“What is it, Harry?” she asked in a low voice, but he put his finger to his lips again and led her, not, as she expected, towards the front of the house, but by a wide circuit, keeping to the shadow of the trees, until they went past the rosery and near to the stables.

A dog barked as they passed in silence.

“I can’t go any farther, Harry.”

“You must, you must!” His voice was urgent, compelling. “I tell you that not only my life, but your own is in danger.”

“But what of Miss Wenner?” She drew back.

“They will not touch her. My mother’s spirit will watch that poor girl – she died in that room.”

Leslie gasped.

“Your mother?” she asked, in an awe-stricken whisper.

“Come!” He was impatient, caught her by the arm and led her farther down, until she saw near at hand the gleam of the Ravensrill.

“But, Harry, I can’t go any farther.” She stopped resolutely. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. Where have you been all this time? Everybody has been looking for you, and Dick has been terribly worried.”

He laughed. (It was the laugh that the policeman heard.)

“Dick is worried? That is rich!”

And now, as the challenge of a distant voice came to her, she saw his face in the moonlight. He was unshaven, unkempt, grimy of face and hands; he wore no collar, and stood a collarless man in a long frock-coat with a wild appearance. Slowly she drew back, dread and fear on her face, and then he clutched her by the wrists.

“If you scream I will throw you into the river and kneel on you until you are dead,” he whispered in so calm and matter-of-fact a tone that she could not believe he was serious.

And yet she had an extra sense which told her that he was not only serious, but that she was in deadly peril. He kept hold of her wrist, or she would have taken to flight, though she would have had little chance of escaping one who in his schooldays was a noted sprinter.

She remembered something else now and felt sick. Harry Alford had captained his public school team at Bisley and had carried everything before him. This pale anaemic youth was the greatest shot of his time.

The greatest shot! She remembered the bullet that was meant for her, and he felt her dragging on his hand, but said no word. She must not lose her nerve at this moment of crisis.