"I will come in with you, Senorita," I said. "I must talk with your
father"; and I turned impatiently to the door and rang the bell again.
"To-night?" said she.
"Yes," said I. "I promised Harry Vandeleur to look after you."
"Did you?" said she, and though her anxieties were heavy upon her, a
tender smile parted her lips.
Still no one came to the door.
"They must have gone to bed," I said, pushing against the panels. To
my surprise the door yielded and quietly swung wide. We looked into a
hall silent and empty and brightly lit. We were both in a mood to
count each new phenomenon a disaster. To both of us there was
something eerie in the silent swinging-in of the door, in the
emptiness and bright illumination of the hall. We looked at one
another in dismay. Then Olivia swept in, and I followed. She walked
straight to a door at the back of the hall, hesitated with her hand
upon the knob for just the fraction of a second, and flung it open. We
went into a room furnished as a study. But the study, too, was empty
and brightly lit. There was a green-shaded reading-lamp beside an
armchair, as though but now the occupant had sat there and read.
Olivia stood in the centre of the room and in a clear and ringing
voice she cried:
"Father!"
Her voice echoed along the passages and up the stairs. And no answer
came. She turned abruptly, and, moving with a swift step, she opened
door after door. Each door opened upon a brightly lit and empty room.
She ran a few steps up the stairs and stood poised, holding up in her
white gloved hand the glistening skirt of her white frock. One by one
she called upon the servants by name, looking upwards. Not a door was
opened above our heads. Not a sound of any movement reached our ears.
Olivia ran lightly up the stairs. I heard the swift rustle of her gown
as she moved from room to room; and suddenly she was upon the stairs
again looking down at me, with her hand like a flake of snow upon the
bannister. She gleamed against the background of dark wood, a thing of
silver.
"There is no one in the house," she said simply, in a strange and
quiet voice. She moved down the stairs and held out her hand to me.
"Good night," she said.
Though her voice never shook, her eyes shone with tears. She was but
waiting until I went, to shed them.
"I will come to-morrow," I stammered; "in the morning. I may have news
for you," and I bent over her hand and kissed it.
"Good night," she said again, and she stood with her hand upon the
latch of the door. I went out. She closed the door behind me. I heard
the key turn in the lock, the bolt shoot into its socket. There was a
freshness in the air, a paling of the stars above my head. I waited
for a while in the street, but no figure appeared at any window, nor
was any light put out. I left her alone in that empty and illumined
house, its windows blazing on the dawn.