"Where is Mrs. Croyle now?" he asked, and he was as white as the tablecloth in front of him.
There was no further movement towards the door. Slowly the men resumed their seats. A silence followed in which person after person looked at Stella's empty place as though an intensity of gaze would materialise her there. Miranda was the first bravely to break through it.
"She hasn't come down yet," she said, and Millie Splay seized upon the words.
"No, she never comes down for breakfast—never has all this week."
"Yes, that's true," returned Dennis Brown with an attempt at cheerfulness.
"Besides—what makes—the idea—impossible," said Sir Chichester, "is the publication this morning. There wouldn't have been time.... It's clearly an atrocious piece of malice." He was speaking with an obvious effort to convince himself that the monstrous thing was false. But he collapsed suddenly and once more discomfort and silence reigned in the room.
"Stella's not well," Millie Splay took up the tale. "That's why she is seldom seen before twelve. Those headaches of hers——" and suddenly she in her turn broke off. She leaned forward and pressed the electric bell upon the tablecloth beside her. That small trivial action brought its relief, lightened the vague cloud of misgiving which since Luttrell had spoken, had settled upon all.
"You rang, my lady," said Harper in the doorway.
"Yes, Harper. We were making some plans for a picnic to-day and we should like to know if Mrs. Croyle will join us. Can you find out from her maid whether she is awake?"
It was superbly done. There was not a quaver in Lady Splay's voice, not a sign of agitation in her manner.