And so it happened that when the library door opened, her light dress was hidden. She was, indeed, completely screened as, when she saw who had entered, she drew back behind the hangings.
It was Winslow. He crossed to the hearth and stood rubbing his hands by the fire, making a dry sound. It seemed to Hildegarde that in the dim room, lighted only by the pale glow from the white cat and from the ashes, he was more than ever sinister.
She hoped he would go out. It would be most embarrassing if he should find her. She drew closer within the shelter of the curtain and waited.
When her father arrived, she felt that all hope was gone. They would sit and talk, and Crispin would come. And, oh, what was she going to do about it?
The best way seemed to do nothing. . . .
Carew sat down. "I very nearly stayed upstairs, Winslow. I hate the whole thing."
"Don't be a fool, Louis. This is the best way out for you. You know that, and I know it."
"But Stabler is my friend. And to go to him to-night. Accept his hospitality!"
"You've said all that before. It isn't going to hurt him, I tell you, Louis."
"Perhaps not. But it's the idea of the thing. If I can pull it off with him, you'll pay me for it. That's putting it straight, Neale. I'll be selling my influence for money."
Winslow would not argue. He simply asked a question. "What's the alternative?"
Louis' voice raged. "Oh, I know. I know. You've got me."
After that they made their plans, and Hildegarde,
