She could not ask that her lips and her hands might be freed.

She had but a few seconds.

She had one thought--to hide herself in the darkness of the garden.

Celia fled across the room, sprang wildly over the sill, ran, tripped over her skirt, steadied herself, and was swung off the ground by the arms of Harry Wethermill.
"There we are," he said, with his shrill, wavering laugh.

"I opened the gate before." And suddenly Celia hung inert in his arms.
The light went out in the salon.