“Visibly, yes; but heaven only knows how many of her infernal sisterhood may swarm around her in the air.”
“Does she seem excited—unusually so?”
“Here is an endorsement for that,” replied Turner, stretching forth his arm, and touching the sleeve of his coat, through which a drop or two of blood had oozed.
“Bring my clothes here, and when I am dressed let her come in,” said Lord Clare, abruptly; “I must see her—I must know what has been done,” he added, in an under tone. “Thank heaven! the terrible suspense will be over.”
Turner hesitated, he evidently had some dislike of encountering the Sibyl again, valiant as he was.
“If I open the door she will rush in—the old hyena.”
“No, no, address her mildly,” answered Clare; “say that I will receive her the moment my toilet is made. If she is restive, pacify her with a piece of gold; but go at once, I am impatient for this scene to be over.”
Turner looked at his coat-sleeve, shook his head, and cautiously undid the bolt. As he had expected, the Sibyl stood outside in the passage, her eyes blazing with fury, her whole frame quivering with impatient wrath.
“Not yet, my diamond of Golconda,” said Turner, putting her back with his left hand, while he locked the door and drew forth the key. “Cultivate patience, darling, it is a Christian virtue, very respectable and worth having; anybody’s servant in England can tell you that.”
“Your master, the Busne. Have you told him I am here?” inquired the Sibyl, subduing her evil nature into a vicious wheedle more repulsive than open malice.