I offered her a cigarette, which she accepted, and as I was lighting it with elaborate care, every moment finding a new beauty in her charming face, Pedro again appeared and addressed some remark in Spanish to Madame.
“My chair, Pedro,” she said; “I will come at once.”
The Spanish butler wheeled the chair across to the settee, and lifting her with an ease which spoke of long practice, placed her amidst the cushions where she spent so many hours of her life.
“I know you will excuse me, dear,” she said to Val Beverley, “because I feel sure that Mr. Knox will do his very best to make up for my absence. Presently, I shall be back.”
Pedro holding the door open, she went wheeling out, and I found myself alone with Val Beverley.
At the time I was much too delighted to question the circumstances which had led to this tête-à-tête, but had I cared to give the matter any consideration, it must have presented rather curious features. 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 realized
