"No, really?"
The girl's note of interrogation was curiously provoking, and Cynthia
could have shaken her.
Suddenly through the open French windows of the library, a shrill
telephone call rang out. It came from the instrument on Buntingford's
desk, and the two outside could see him take up the receiver.
"Hullo!"
"It's a message from Dansworth," said Cynthia, springing to her feet.
"They've sent for him."
"Yes--yes--" came to them in Buntingford's deep assenting voice, as he
stood with the receiver to his ear. "All right--In an hour?--That's it.
Less, if possible? Well, I think we can do it in less. Good-bye."
Helena had also risen. Buntingford emerged.
"Geoffrey!--Peter!--Horne!--all of you!"
From different parts of the lawn, men appeared running. Geoffrey French,
Captain Lodge, Peter, and Julian Horne, were in a few instants grouped
round their host, with Helena and Cynthia just behind.
"The Dansworth mob's out of hand," said Buntingford briefly. "They've set
fire to another building, and the police are hard pressed.
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