The music swelled beneath her fingers.

“For how long?”

“For a week or so.  I am just giving your uncle time to clear out his belongings.  I am leaving him the outhouse.”

“He asked you to leave him that?” she whispered.

“Yes!”

“You are not going in there at all?”

“Not at all.”

Again she played a little more loudly for a few moments.  Then the music died away once more.

“What reason did he give for keeping possession of that?”

“Another hobby,” Hamel replied.  “He is an inventor, it seems.  He has the model of something there; he would not tell me what.”

She shivered a little, and her music drifted away.  She bent over the keys, her face hidden from him.

“You will not go away just yet?” she asked softly.  “You are going to stay for a few days, at any rate?”

“Without a doubt,” he assured her.  “I am altogether my own master.”

“Thank God,” she murmured.

He leaned with his elbow against the top of the piano, looking down at her.  Since dinnertime she had fastened a large red rose in the front of her gown.

“Do you know that this is all rather mysterious?” he said calmly.

“What is mysterious?” she demanded.

“The atmosphere of the place:  your uncle’s queer aversion to my having the Tower; your visitor up-stairs, who fights with the servants while we are at dinner; your uncle himself, whose will seems to be law not only to you but to your brother, who must be of age, I should think, and who seems to have plenty of spirit.”

“We live here, both of us,” she told him.  “He is our guardian.”

“Naturally,” Hamel replied, “and yet, it may have been my fancy, of course, but at dinnertime I seemed to get a queer impression.”

“Tell it me?” she insisted, her fingers breaking suddenly into a livelier melody.  “Tell it me at once?  You were there all the time.  I could see you watching.  Tell me what you thought?”

She had turned her head now, and her eyes were fixed upon his.  They were large and soft, capable, he knew, of infinite expression.  Yet at that moment the light that shone from them was simply one of fear, half curious, half shrinking.

“My impression,” he said, “was that both of you disliked and feared Mr. Fentolin, yet for some reason or other that you were his abject slaves.”

Her fingers seemed suddenly inspired with diabolical strength and energy.  Strange chords crashed and broke beneath them.  She played some unfamiliar music with tense and fierce energy.  Suddenly she paused and rose to her feet.

“Come out on to the terrace,” she invited.  “You are not afraid of cold?”

He followed her without a word.  She opened the French windows, and they stepped out on to the long, broad stone promenade.  The night was dark, and there was little to be seen.  The light was burning at the entrance to the waterway; a few lights were twinkling from the village.  The soft moaning of the sea was distinctly audible.  She moved to the edge of the palisading.  He followed her closely.