Gatliffe made no observation, but rose also.
The lady led the way upstairs and conducted her visitor to an elegantly-furnished bedroom on the second story of the house.
She placed the light on the toilet-table, and then turned towards the bewildered young man.
“You will be able to rest tranquilly here till morning, dearest,” she murmured.
Gatliffe nodded. Then he sprang forward and caught her in his arms. He pressed her form to his, and covered her with burning and passionate kisses.
“Enough!” cried Laura. “Good night. Susan will be up early, and you can have breakfast at what hour you please,” and with these words she passed along the passage.
Gatliffe closed the door of his bedroom, sat down in one of the chairs, and endeavoured to collect his thoughts—his head was in a perfect whirl.
“She is a beautiful creature,” he murmured. “A lady of independent means! Eh! what a strange adventure! Well, I have no reason to complain.”
He threw off his clothes and tumbled into bed, but he was too much disturbed in his mind to sleep. He thought over and over again of his mysterious inamorata. It would have been in vain for him to deny that he was very much taken with her.
He believed that he had made a conquest, and that she had conceived an overpowering affection for him. Who and what she was he found it difficult to determine; neither did it much matter—love levels all distinctions.