The
call first of host and then of hostess was inconsistent with the
courtesy of the master of Cray's Folly, which, like the appointments of
his home and his mode of life, was elaborate. But these ideas did not
trouble me at the moment.
Suddenly, however, indeed before I had time to speak, the girl started
and laid her hand upon my arm.
"Did you hear something?" she whispered, "a queer sort of sound?"
"No," I replied, "what kind of sound?"
"An odd sort of sound, almost like--the flapping of wings."
I saw that she had turned pale, I saw the confirmation of something
which I had only partly realised before: that her life at Cray's Folly
was a constant fight against some haunting shadow. Her gaiety, her
lightness, were but a mask. For now, in those wide-open eyes, I read
absolute horror.
"Miss Beverley," I said, grasping her hand reassuringly, "you alarm me.
What has made you so nervous to-night?"
"To-night!" she echoed, "to-night? It is every night. If you had not
come--" she corrected herself--"if someone had not come, I don't think
I could have stayed. I am sure I could not have stayed."
"Doubtless the attempted burglary alarmed you?" I suggested, intending
to sooth her fears.
Pages:
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139