Her son's wife is at
Santierre, two miles off. She may be there."
"That's it," I agreed hastily, the more hastily because I doubted.
"She's sitting over a fire, toasting her toes, and gossiping and having
a cup of tea, or whatever people like that use for an equivalent in
these parts." I suppressed the unwelcome thought that a woman living
here alone ran a first-rate chance of getting her throat cut by
strolling vagrants. "Shall we have to wait until she comes back?" I
asked. "Then let's sit down. I choose this stone!"
On my last word, however, something surprising happened. Miss Falconer,
in her impatience, put a hand on the bolt of the gate, shook it, and
raised it, and, lo and behold! the oak frame swung open. Before I quite
realized the situation, we were inside, in a square courtyard, with
the _gardienne's_ lodge at the right of us, impenetrably barred and
shuttered, and before us the portal of the castle, surmounted with
quaint stone carvings of men in armor riding prancing steeds. The court,
as revealed by the moonlight, was intact, but neglected.
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