let out a long breath.
"Well done," he said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You remembered to breathe, Miss Etoile."
"You stay right there!" she said in a quaking voice. "I'm going to—to fetch some water!" Without pausing, she flung the bar off the door, unlocked it, and slammed it shut behind her. She locked it from the outside and stood there, panting. It took another image of the waterfall to get her hysteria under control.
All right. She was safe now. She was out of his power. She was in the attic hall. What next? The police. She pulled the cloak around her, realized she'd forgotten shoes—forgotten even to dress—a perfect picture she would make, running along the mucky street barefoot in her night rail.
Leda stood uncertainly in the dim hall. She curled her toes against the threadbare weave of the carpet.
If she went to the police now, it wouldn't be Sergeant MacDonald and Inspector Ruby who would make the arrest. They wouldn't come on until evening. By then everything would all be done up and some other officers would have the credit.
She put her hands over her mouth, calculating wildly. His leg was broken. He couldn't leave. If she could keep him in her room until evening…
She didn't think she had the nerve for it.
But his leg was broken. He was harmless. Where was he going with a broken leg?
Before reason could catch up with her, she turned back and unlocked the door. She opened it carefully, preparing an excuse about being so scatterbrained she'd forgotten the bucket and pitcher.
Her room was empty.
She grabbed the door and peered behind it. The sword was gone. He was gone. She looked at the open window and ran across to it, scrambling onto the bed and leaning out so far that she almost knocked her geranium over.
From her garret window she had a clear view up and down the roofs over the canal, and no figure lurked on the shingles or disappeared over a peak. Balancing precariously, she sat on the windowsill and pulled herself up, craning her neck until she could see if he was hiding overtop her own window, but the mossy slates were unmarked and empty there, too.
"Broken leg indeed," she muttered, lowering herself carefully back inside. "Prevaricator! Horrid man!" She sat down on her bed and put her hands on her breast, letting out a deep sigh. "Oh, thank the good Lord he's gone."
She rested on the bed for a few moments, thinking of the waterfall, remembering to breathe. The sensation of relief that he'd gotten away and it was no longer her duty to rush to the police was out of ail proportion to her sense of reprieve from danger. She hadn't
really
been afraid of him.
But she got up and pulled the casement window closed, latching it securely, and then locked the door.
She had a moment's uncomfortable thought that she truly ought to dress and go down to the station, to alert the officers that their thief had been in the neighborhood, at least. Even as she considered it, she realized how preposterous everything would sound as she made her report. Mr. Gerard! A thief! Friend of Lady Ashland and the queen of the Hawaiian Islands! Oh, yes, the police were quite likely to accept her word for that. She would be fortunate if she weren't committed to a lunatic asylum on the spot.
She would tell Inspector Ruby and Sergeant MacDonald about it this evening. They would believe her, she thought. At least they might listen to her.
Normally she left the house at this hour, but this morning hurrying away just to deceive Mrs. Dawkins was beyond her. If the landlady questioned her, Leda resolved, she would say that she wasn't feeling well and had overslept. And truly, every muscle in her body seemed wobbly. Her teeth actually chattered as she righted the fallen table and hefted the sewing machine back onto it, examining the device anxiously. It had a scratch in the enamel, but beyond that it seemed unharmed. The baths would not open for some time yet, so she lit her grate and made tea, pulling her gown up to her knees and
"Well done," he said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You remembered to breathe, Miss Etoile."
"You stay right there!" she said in a quaking voice. "I'm going to—to fetch some water!" Without pausing, she flung the bar off the door, unlocked it, and slammed it shut behind her. She locked it from the outside and stood there, panting. It took another image of the waterfall to get her hysteria under control.
All right. She was safe now. She was out of his power. She was in the attic hall. What next? The police. She pulled the cloak around her, realized she'd forgotten shoes—forgotten even to dress—a perfect picture she would make, running along the mucky street barefoot in her night rail.
Leda stood uncertainly in the dim hall. She curled her toes against the threadbare weave of the carpet.
If she went to the police now, it wouldn't be Sergeant MacDonald and Inspector Ruby who would make the arrest. They wouldn't come on until evening. By then everything would all be done up and some other officers would have the credit.
She put her hands over her mouth, calculating wildly. His leg was broken. He couldn't leave. If she could keep him in her room until evening…
She didn't think she had the nerve for it.
But his leg was broken. He was harmless. Where was he going with a broken leg?
Before reason could catch up with her, she turned back and unlocked the door. She opened it carefully, preparing an excuse about being so scatterbrained she'd forgotten the bucket and pitcher.
Her room was empty.
She grabbed the door and peered behind it. The sword was gone. He was gone. She looked at the open window and ran across to it, scrambling onto the bed and leaning out so far that she almost knocked her geranium over.
From her garret window she had a clear view up and down the roofs over the canal, and no figure lurked on the shingles or disappeared over a peak. Balancing precariously, she sat on the windowsill and pulled herself up, craning her neck until she could see if he was hiding overtop her own window, but the mossy slates were unmarked and empty there, too.
"Broken leg indeed," she muttered, lowering herself carefully back inside. "Prevaricator! Horrid man!" She sat down on her bed and put her hands on her breast, letting out a deep sigh. "Oh, thank the good Lord he's gone."
She rested on the bed for a few moments, thinking of the waterfall, remembering to breathe. The sensation of relief that he'd gotten away and it was no longer her duty to rush to the police was out of ail proportion to her sense of reprieve from danger. She hadn't
really
been afraid of him.
But she got up and pulled the casement window closed, latching it securely, and then locked the door.
She had a moment's uncomfortable thought that she truly ought to dress and go down to the station, to alert the officers that their thief had been in the neighborhood, at least. Even as she considered it, she realized how preposterous everything would sound as she made her report. Mr. Gerard! A thief! Friend of Lady Ashland and the queen of the Hawaiian Islands! Oh, yes, the police were quite likely to accept her word for that. She would be fortunate if she weren't committed to a lunatic asylum on the spot.
She would tell Inspector Ruby and Sergeant MacDonald about it this evening. They would believe her, she thought. At least they might listen to her.
Normally she left the house at this hour, but this morning hurrying away just to deceive Mrs. Dawkins was beyond her. If the landlady questioned her, Leda resolved, she would say that she wasn't feeling well and had overslept. And truly, every muscle in her body seemed wobbly. Her teeth actually chattered as she righted the fallen table and hefted the sewing machine back onto it, examining the device anxiously. It had a scratch in the enamel, but beyond that it seemed unharmed. The baths would not open for some time yet, so she lit her grate and made tea, pulling her gown up to her knees and
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