ing it was for that she had looked out of the window. ‘It’s too bad a night to keep either man or beast outdoors. He’s to come back at eleven—I dare say Grace will put up with me till then.’
“She hesitated an instant, looking at me in a way I did not understand. Just then the maid came to the door, but seeing me with Mrs. Delroy, went away again.
“‘I fear she’ll not be able to see you tonight, Mr. Drysdale.’ she said, at last. ‘She’s not been feeling well since dinner. She’s lying down now, and I think she’s asleep.’
“‘Oh, well, then,’ I said, ‘I won’t disturb her. It’s nothing serious, I hope?’
“‘Not at all; merely a little indisposition. Shall I let you out?’
“There was something in the last words—a little too much eagerness, perhaps—which arrested my attention. They didn’t sound quite like Mrs. Delroy, for you know, Godfrey, she’s usually the sweetest, gentlest, most hospitable woman in the world—the very last person who would think of chasing a man out into a storm. I don’t know why it was, but somehow the thought flashed through my head that she was deceiving me, that she wasn’t telling the truth, that she wanted to get rid of me. I’ve got a streak of obstinacy in me that took fire in a moment.
“‘Isn’t there a chance that Miss Croydon may get better after a while and come down?’ I asked.
“Mrs. Delroy shook her head decidedly.
“‘I’m afraid not. It’s a nervous headache, you see. It will last all night, probably.’
