That leading to the conservatory—it stood wide open. On! On! along the corridor, dark but for one dim electric light, such as was also shining in the hall. Then through the palm-house, and toward the central doors. A red spot gleamed upon the centre—the toad’s head—for this door was carved alike inside and out. Instinctively she touched the shining knob. The door flew open. The cold damp air of night wafted toward her as she stood thus upon the threshold of the garden. Then, closing the door behind her, she moved forward to the steps. And here again Rosalie returned thanks to that light upon the ugly head. For whereas within it showed her where to touch the spring, here it shone with a direct brilliancy that lit up the entire straight path across the garden, right across and through the wooded shrubbery at the farther end, that led toward the stables. For though the faint light of night might have been strong enough to guide her to the avenue of trees, nothing could ever penetrate this heavy gloom, save only a light such as this steady red one, that lit up the whole long path, right to the stables, as clear toward the end as at the beginning. So without trouble she came to the doorless building. One gigantic slab of marble, between two pillars, was slid back into the wall, and the red light penetrated in beyond. She followed on the path it lit for her, and stood within a sumptuous building. It was certainly a stable, though at the moment it was empty. Here she looked round, not from curiosity, but to find some means of exit. She walked round many times, but found nothing but one small door, more like a cupboard than a door, built low in the wall, and quite beyond her power to open. She wrung her hands in despair, and a terrible sweat broke out all over her. No way of escape! Up to now all things had been so easy, as if aiding and abetting her in this wild dream and dash for freedom. Suddenly upon the still and ghostly midnight air came a sound: the rhythmic trampling of horses, and then a neigh half-echoed by another, as the sound came nearer. “God help me!” she said, and leant against the carved partition of two stalls, with that deathlike sweat and fear robbing her limbs of any strength of motion. “The key! The key!” What voice was it that rang so clearly on the night? She fumbled in her pocket, and found the old disused one of her uncle’s safe. With nothing but desperation for a guidance she applied it to the little door, close-built to the ground. It fitted and turned. The door flew open. As it did so, from the garden came the crunching sound of horses’ feet on gravel, and of wheels. The little door closed again. Rosalie was without the precincts of Marble House, and breathed her first long sigh of freedom. CHAPTER XV A WAYSIDE HOUSE AND GLOOMY CELL