Dennis had an irrepressible start; but it might have been quite as much at the freedom of the question as at the difficulty of the answer. "Please say to her that—I am." He spoke with a clearness that proved the steel surface he had in a few minutes forged for his despair.
The Doctor took the thing as he gave it, only drawing from his pocket a key, which he held straight up. "Then I feel it to be only right to say to you that this locks"—and he indicated the quarter to which Rose had retired—"the other door."
Dennis, with a diffident hand out, looked at him hard; but the good man showed with effect that he was professionally used to that. "You mean she's a prisoner?"
"On Mr. Vidal's honour."
"But whose prisoner?"
"Mrs. Beever's."
Dennis took the key, which passed into his pocket. "Don't you forget," he then asked with inscrutable gravity, "that we're here, all round, on a level———"
"With the garden?" the Doctor broke in. "I forget nothing. We've a friend on the terrace."
