Her hand was on the latch as Elita spoke again.
“Help me – please help me ”
The words seemed to come croakingly from her throat; and now her hands, claw-like in their intensity, were groping towards Lizbeth.
“Help me,” she was pleading, grovelling, beset by her own fear and terror.
“I cannot help you,” Lizbeth said slowly. “And if I could, I would not do so! You have killed my brother.”
She went from the house without a backward glance. She pulled the door to behind her; and before she had found her horse in the darkness and mounted him, she heard the bolts being shot home and the chains jangling. The light in the hall was extinguished, Elita was alone in the darkness, alone with her own fears and her conscience.
Slowly Lizbeth rode up the drive. It was raining again now, but she did
