I had remembered a window opening over a shed at the head of the kitchen staircase.

I could reach it from this rear hall by just a turn or two, and once on that shed, a short leap would land me on the ground; after which I could easily trust to the storm to conceal my flight across the open golf-links.

It was worth trying at least; anything was better than being found in the house with my murdered betrothed.
I had no reason to think that I was being sought, or that my presence in this building was even suspected.

It might well be that the police were even ignorant of the tragedy awaiting them across the threshold of the door they seemed intent on battering down.

The gleam of a candle burning in this closed-up house, or even the tale told by the rising smoke, may have drawn them from the road to investigate.