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 center was a lady conversing with two gentlemen. Her back was toward me, but I had no difficulty in recognizing 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 recognize 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 realize that she had been seen and her intentions recognized, 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 can not 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 same fire made all the light there was in the room. Both gas-jets had been put out and the rich yet home-like 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 scrutinizing look into the corners. I dreaded finding a pair of lovers hid somewhere in the many nooks made by the jutting book-cases. 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 near-by chair. 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 – Halloo, 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.
I stood contemplating the sleeping figure before me.
"He must have been lying here for some time," I muttered.
Sinclair started.
"Probably some little while before he slept," I pursued. "I have often heard that he dotes on the firelight."
"I have a notion to wake him," suggested Sinclair.
"It will not be necessary," said I, drawing back, as the heavy figure stirred, breathed heavily and finally sat up.
"I beg pardon," I now entreated, backing politely away. "We thought the room empty."
Mr. Armstrong, who, if slow to receive impressions, is far from lacking intelligence, eyed us with sleepy indifference for a moment, then rose ponderously to his feet and was, on the instant, the man of manner and unfailing courtesy we had ever found him.
"What can I do to oblige you?" he asked; his smooth, if hesitating tones, sounding strange to our excited ears.
I made haste to forestall Sinclair, who was racking his brains for words with which to propound the question he dared not put too boldly.
"Pardon me, Mr. Armstrong, we were looking about for a small pin dropped by Miss Camerden." (How hard it was for me to use her name in this connection only my own heart knew.) "She was in here just now, was she not?"
The courteous gentleman bowed, hawed, and smiled a very polite but unmeaning smile. Evidently he had not the remotest notion whether she had been in or not.
"I am sorry, but I am afraid I lost myself for a moment on that lounge," he admitted. "The firelight always makes me sleepy. But if I can