“Let us go back into the long hall,” I urged. “The ceaseless whirl of these
dancers is making me dizzy.”
With the ease of a gallant man he took me on his arm and soon we were
promenading again in the direction of the alcove. A passing glimpse of its
interior was afforded me as we turned to retrace our steps in front of the
yellow divan. The lady with the diamond was still there. A fold of the superb
pink velvet she wore protruded across the gap made by the half-drawn curtains,
just as it had done a half-hour before. But it was impossible to see her face
or who was with her. What I could see, however, and did, was the figure of a
man leaning against the wall at the foot of the steps. At first I thought this
person unknown to me, then I perceived that he was no other than the chief
guest of the evening, the Englishman of whom I have previously spoken.
His expression had altered. He looked now both anxious and absorbed,
particularly anxious and particularly absorbed; so much so that I was not
surprised that no one ventured to approach him. Again I wondered and again I
asked myself for whom or for what he was waiting. For Mr. Durand to leave this
lady’s presence? No, no, I would not believe that. Mr. Durand could not be
there still; yet some women make it difficult for a man to leave them and,
realizing this, I could not forbear casting a parting glance behind me as,
yielding to Mr. Fox’s importunities, I turned toward the supper-room. It showed
me the Englishman in the act of lifting two cups of coffee from a small table
standing near the reception-room door. As his manner plainly betokened whither
he was bound with this refreshment, I felt all my uneasiness vanish, and was
able to take my seat at one of the small tables with which the supper-room was
filled, and for a few minutes, at least, lend an ear to Mr. Fox’s vapid
compliments and trite opinions. Then my attention wandered.
I had not moved nor had I shifted my gaze from the scene before me the ordinary
scene of a gay and well-filled supper-room, yet I found myself looking, as if
through a mist I had not even seen develop, at something as strange, unusual
and remote as any phantasm, yet distinct enough in its outlines for me to get a
decided impression of a square of light surrounding the figure of a man in a
peculiar pose not easily imagined and not easily described. It all passed in an
instant, and I sat staring at the window opposite me with the feeling of one
who has just seen a vision. Yet almost immediately I forgot the whole
occurrence in my anxiety as to Mr. Durand’s whereabouts. Certainly he was
amusing himself very much elsewhere or he would have found an opportunity of
joining me long before this. He was not even in sight, and I grew weary of the
endless menu and the senseless chit chat of my companion, and, finding him
amenable to my whims, rose from my seat at table and made my way to a group of
acquaintances standing just outside the supper-room door. As I listened to
their greetings some impulse led me to cast another glance down the hall toward
the alcove. A man—a waiter—was issuing from it in a rush. Bad news
was in his face, and as his eyes encountered those of Mr. Ramsdell, who was
advancing hurriedly to meet him, he plunged down the steps with a cry which
drew a crowd about the two in an instant.
What was it? What had happened?
Mad with an anxiety I did not stop to define, I rushed toward this group now
swaying from side to side in irrepressible excitement, when suddenly everything
swam before me and I fell in a swoon to the floor.