Nor was that the worst of it. For when Rudolph Musgrave followed her--as
he presently did, in a state of considerable amaze,--his sister
informed him that Miss Stapylton had retired to her room with an
unaccountable headache.
And there she remained for the rest of the evening. It was an unusually
long evening.
Yet, somehow, in spite of its notable length--affording, as it did, an
excellent opportunity for undisturbed work,--Colonel Musgrave found,
with a pricking conscience, that he made astonishingly slight progress
in an exhaustive monograph upon the fragmentary Orderly Book of an
obscure captain in a long-forgotten regiment, which if it had not
actually served in the Revolution, had at least been demonstrably
granted money "for services," and so entitled hundreds of aspirants to
become the Sons (or Daughters) of various international disagreements.
Nor did he see her at breakfast--nor at dinner.