Her whole senses were concentrated on reaching the exit; but her mind appeared to work independently of her own volition and to conjure up possibilities behind this series of events. Sir Clinton had evidently expected some criminal attempt that night; and he had assumed that the museum would be the objective. But suppose he were wrong. Perhaps the affair in the museum was only a blind to draw towards it all the men outside the ball-room. Then, when they were disposed of, there might come an incursion here. Most of the women had taken advantage of their fancy dress to deck themselves out with jewellery, and a few armed men could easily reap a small fortune in a minute or two. Despite the soundness of her nerves, she began to feel anxious, and to conjure up still more appalling pictures.
Suddenly her eyes were dazzled by a flash of light as a man beside her struck a match. Almost at the same moment she felt a hand on her shoulder and she was pulled backwards so brusquely that she almost lost her balance and slipped.
“Put out that match, you fool!” said Michael’s voice. “Do you want to have these girls’ dresses in a blaze?”
The flare of the match had revealed a circle of startled faces. The room was filled with excited voices and a sound of confused movements. Over at the orchestra a music-stand fell with a clash of metal. Then, close beside her in the darkness, Joan heard a girl’s voice repeating monotonously in tones of acute fear: “What does it mean? Oh, what does it mean?”
“Much good that does anyone,” Joan muttered, contemptuously. Then, aloud, she called: “Michael!”
Before he could reply, there came a sharp exclamation in a man’s voice:
“Stand back, there! My partner’s fainted.”
The possibilities involved in a panic suddenly became all too clear in Joan’s mind. If half a dozen people lost their heads, the girl might be badly hurt.
Michael’s voice was lifted again, in a tone that would have carried through a storm at sea:
“Everybody stand fast! You’ll be trampling the girl underfoot if you don’t take care. Stand still, confound you! Pull the blinds up and throw back the curtains. It’s a moonlight night.”
There was a rustling as those nearest the windows set about the execution of his orders. Light suddenly appeared, revealing the strained faces and uneasy attitudes of the company. Joan turned to Michael.
“Come with me and put in the switch, Michael. Sir Clinton’s gone to the museum. We must get the lights on quick.”
Michael, with a word to his partner, followed his fiancée towards the door. A thought seemed to strike him just as he was leaving the room:
“Wait here, everybody, till we get the lights on again. You’ll just run risks by moving about in the dark outside. It’s nothing. Probably only a fuse blown.”
“Now then, Joan, where’s that switch?” he added as they passed out of the door.
It was pitch-dark in the rest of the house; but Joan knew her way and was able to grope along the corridors without much difficulty. As they came near the switch-box, the lights flashed up again. One of the servants appeared round a corner.
“Someone had pulled out the switch, sir,” he explained. “It took me some time to make my way to it and put it in again.”
“Stout fellow!” said Michael, approvingly.
At that moment, a voice shouted above the confused noises of the house:
“Come on, you fellows! He’s got away. Lend hand to chase him.”
And a sound of running steps filled the hall, as the male guests poured out in answer to the summons.
“You don’t need me any longer, Joan?” Michael questioned. “Right! Then I’m off to lend a hand.”
He ran to join the rest.
Left alone, Joan retraced her steps to the ballroom; but instead of re-entering it, she passed on in the direction of the museum, whither a number of the guests were making their way also.
“I hope nobody’s got badly hurt,” she thought to herself as she hurried along. “I do wish I’d taken the hint and not asked to have that collection thrown open to-night.”
Much to her relief, she found Sir Clinton sitting on a chair beside the museum door. In the doorway stood the keeper, looking none the worse and busying himself with fending off the more inquisitive among the guests who wished to enter the room. Joan noticed that the museum itself was in darkness though the lights were burning in the rest of the house.
“You’re not hurt, are you, Sir Clinton?” she asked as she came up to him.
“Nothing to speak of. The fellow kicked me on the ankle as he came out. I’m temporarily lamed, that’s all. Nothing to worry about, I think.”
He rubbed his ankle as he spoke.
“Are you all right, Mold?” Joan inquired.
The keeper reassured her.
“No harm done, Miss Joan. They didn’t hurt me. But I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t manage to get hold of them. They were on me before I could do anything, me being so taken aback by the lights going out.”
“What’s happened?” Joan questioned Sir Clinton. “Has anything been stolen?”
