The storm burst upon them in all its fury--the maddest, wildest storm
they had known in all their lives. Terrified, half drowned, blown
almost from the saddles, the trio finally found shelter in the lee of
a shelving cliff just off the road. While they stood there shivering,
clutching the bits of their well-nigh frantic horses, the glimmer of
lights came down to them from windows farther up the steep. There
was no mistaking the three upright oblongs of light; they were tall
windows in the house, the occupants of which doubtless had been
aroused at this unearthly hour by the fierceness of the storm.
"By Jove," lamented the duke, water running down his neck in floods.
"What a luxury a home is, be it ever so humble, on a night like this."
"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" groaned the count. "How comfortab' zey look. And
here? _Eh bien! Qui fait trembler la terre!_ I am seeck! I die!"
"Penelope is out in all this," moaned his lordship.
"I am not so sure of that. Trust a woman to find a place where she
can't ruin her hat. My word for it, Cecil, she's found a safe roost.
I say, by Jove!" The duke was staring more intently than ever at the
windows far above. "I have it! Isn't it rather odd that a house should
be lighted so brilliantly at this hour of night?"
"Demmed servants forgot to put out the lamps," groaned Bazelhurst
without interest.
"Nonsense! I tell you what: some one has roused the house and asked
shelter from the storm. Now, who could that be but Penelope?"
"By Jove, you're a ripping clever ass, after all, Barminster--a
regular Sherlock Holmes.
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