“It is impossible that you should refuse me,” argued the man. “Impossible! I don’t suppose that motion of the eyelids means anything, but even if it did, naturally she does not want me to have the box. Still, I must have it. Miss Dartmouth, everything depends on my obtaining that box. Its contents are essential to the bringing about of justice. I entreat you most urgently and most solemnly to give it to me. You cannot doubt my sincerity.”
“I will admit frankly,” answered Pauline, “that I do not doubt your sincerity. But, all the same, you cannot have that box—at least from my hands. It belongs to Mrs. Ilam; she evidently treasures it highly. I put it under her pillow to satisfy her. Mrs. Ilam is helpless, and I am in charge of her. You must go, I repeat—and at once. We have talked too much.”
“Suppose I take it by force?” suggested the man.
“You would never dare,” said Pauline angrily, and she rushed again to the bell. “If you attempt to take it I will ring the bell, and I will hold you till some one comes, even if I die for it.”
“Mad creature!” he exclaimed acidly. “I could kill you. It is almost worth while; but I won’t. You tell me to go, and I go; but my resources are not yet exhausted. Good-night. I can’t leave without expressing the opinion that you’ve got both sense and grit, and plenty of both. But you’ve made a mistake to-night. Good-bye.”
And while she stood with her hand on the bell-push Mr. Jetsam passed very calmly out of the window, and the curtain fell in front of him and hid him.
It was the most curious adventure of Pauline’s life, which, indeed, had hitherto been entirely free from the unusual and the mysterious. After a short period of hesitation she went to the window, drew aside the curtain boldly, and looked out into the night of the City. There was no sign of her late visitor, but the ladder rested against the balcony, a proof of his recent presence; otherwise, she might have persuaded herself that what she had been through was a dream. She shut the window and bolted it, and came back into the room. The old woman, with her dark burning eyes staring always at the same spot on the ceiling, seemed now somewhat easier. Pauline gazed at her, and, after having stirred the fire, lay down again on the couch.
And as she closed her eyes, the strange enigma of Mrs. Ilam and her son and the nocturnal visitant filled her mind with distracting and futile thoughts. Who was this grey-haired man, at once so masterful, so dignified, and so desperate? What could be the justice that he demanded? what the contents of the lacquered box? She would have a real good talk with Rosie in the morning. That prospect comforted her. Rosie—Rosie—— Suddenly she started, and gradually she perceived that she had been asleep a long time—two hours, perhaps—and that something, some presence, had wakened her. Looking round, she noticed that the door, which had been closed, was now open.
She jumped up and went out of the room to the passage, but she could neither see nor hear anything. Then, as her eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, she detected a very faint, thin pencil of light at the other end of the passage, and on approaching it she found that it came from her sister’s room. She crept forward, pushed open the door and went in. Rosie, fully dressed, was sitting on a chair near the window, which was not quite closed, and her face was hidden in her hands, and she appeared to be crying.
“Rosie,” exclaimed Pauline, “whatever’s the matter? Why aren’t you in bed and asleep?”