Mrs. Armstrong, our hostess, was fond of gaiety, and amusements were
never lacking. As we stepped down into the great hall we heard music in
the drawing-room, and saw that a dance was in progress.
"That is good," observed Sinclair. "We shall run less risk of finding
the library occupied."
"Shall I not look and see where the girls are? It would be a great
relief to find them both among the dancers."
"Yes," said he; "but don't allow yourself to be inveigled into joining
them. I could not stand the suspense."
I nodded, and slipped toward the drawing-room. He remained in the
bay-window overlooking the terrace.
A rush of young people greeted me as soon as I showed myself. But I was
able to elude them, and catch the one full glimpse I wanted of the great
room beyond. It was a magnificent apartment, and so brilliantly lighted
that every nook stood revealed. On a divan near the centre was a lady
conversing with two gentlemen. Her back was toward me, but I had no
difficulty in recognising Miss Murray. Some distance from her, but with
her face also turned away, stood Dorothy. She was talking with an
unmarried friend, and appeared quite at ease and more than usually
cheerful.
Relieved, yet sorry that I had not succeeded in catching a glimpse of
their faces, I hastened back to Sinclair, who was watching me with
furtive eyes from between the curtains of the window in which he had
secreted himself. As I joined him a young man, who was to act as usher,
sauntered from behind one of the great pillars forming a colonnade down
the hall, and, crossing to where the music-room door stood invitingly
open, disappeared behind it with the air of a man perfectly contented
with his surroundings.
With a nervous grip Sinclair seized me by the arm.
"Was that Beaton?" he asked.
"Certainly; didn't you recognise him?"
He gave me a very strange look.
"Does the sight of him recall anything?"
"No."
"You were at the breakfast-table yesterday morning?"
"I was."
"Do you remember the dream he related for the delectation of such as
would listen?"
Then it was my turn to go white.
"You don't mean----" I began.
"I thought at the time that it sounded more like a veritable adventure
than a dream; now I am sure that it was such."
"Sinclair! You do not mean that the young girl he professed himself to
have surprised one moonlit night standing on the verge of the cliff,
with arms upstretched and a distracted air, was a real person?"
"I do. We laughed at the time; he made it seem so tragic and
preposterous. I do not feel like laughing now."
I gazed at Sinclair in horror. The music was throbbing in our ears, and
the murmur of gay voices and swiftly-moving feet suggested nothing but
joy and hilarity. Which was the dream? This scene of seeming mirth and
happy promise, or the fancies he had conjured up to rob us both of
peace?
"Beaton mentioned no names," I stubbornly protested. "He did not even
call the vision he encountered a woman. It was a wraith, you remember, a
dream-maiden, a creature of his own imagination, born of some tragedy he
had read."
"Beaton is a gentleman," was Sinclair's cold reply. "He did not wish to
injure, but to warn the woman for whose benefit he told his tale."
"Warn?"
"He doubtless reasoned in this way: If he could make this young and
probably sensitive girl realise that she had been seen and her
intentions recognised, she would beware of such attempts in the future.
He is a kind-hearted fellow. Did you notice which end of the table he
ignored when relating this dramatic episode?"
"No."
"If you had we might be better able to judge where his thoughts were.
Probably you cannot even tell how the ladies took it?"
"No, I never thought of looking. Good God, Sinclair, don't let us harrow
up ourselves unnecessarily! I saw them both a moment ago, and nothing in
their manner showed that anything was amiss with either of them."
For answer he drew me toward the library.
This room was not frequented by the young people at night. There were
two or three elderly people in the party, notably the husband and the
brother of the lady of the house, and to their use the room was more or
less given up after nightfall. Sinclair wished to show me the cabinet
where the box had been.
There was a fire in the grate, for the evenings were now more or less
chilly. When the door had closed behind us we found that this fire
supplied all the light there was in the room. Both gas jets had been put
out, and the rich yet homelike room glowed with ruddy hues, interspersed
with great shadows. A solitary scene, yet an enticing one.
Sinclair drew a deep breath. "Mr. Armstrong must have gone elsewhere to
read the evening papers," he remarked.
I replied by casting a scrutinising look into the corners. I dreaded
finding a pair of lovers hid somewhere in the many nooks made by the
jutting bookcases. But I saw no one. However, at the other end of the
large room there stood a screen near one of the many lounges, and I was
on the point of approaching this place of concealment when Sinclair drew
me toward a tall cabinet upon whose glass doors the firelight was
shimmering, and, pointing to a shelf far above our heads, cried:
"No woman could reach that unaided. Gilbertine is tall, but not tall
enough for that. I purposely put it high."
I looked about for a stool. There was one just behind Sinclair. I drew
his attention to it.
He flushed and gave it a kick, then shivered slightly and sat down in a
chair nearby. I knew what he was thinking. Gilbertine was taller than
Dorothy. This stool might have served Gilbertine, if not Dorothy.
I felt a great sympathy for him. After all, his case was more serious
than mine. The Bishop was coming to marry him the next day.
"Sinclair," said I, "the stool means nothing. Dorothy has more inches
than you think. With this under her feet, she could reach the shelf by
standing tiptoe. Besides, there are the chairs."
"True, true!" and he started up; "there are the chairs! I forgot the
chairs. I fear my wits have gone wool-gathering. We shall have to take
others into our confidence." Here his voice fell to a whisper. "Somehow
or by some means we must find out if either of them was seen to come
into this room."
"Leave that to me," said I. "Remember that a word might raise suspicion,
and that in a case like this----Halloa, what's that?"
A gentle snore had come from behind the screen.
"We are not alone," I whispered. "Some one is over there on the lounge."
Sinclair had already bounded across the room. I pressed hurriedly behind
him, and together we rounded the screen and came upon the recumbent
figure of Mr. Armstrong, asleep on the lounge, with his paper fallen
from his hand.
"That accounts for the lights being turned out," grumbled Sinclair.
"Dutton must have done it."
Dutton was the butler.