It was two o’clock when Dr. Grey came up the steps, looking more fatigued than Salome had ever seen him. He sat down beside her on the gallery, and sighed as he caught a glimpse of the men who were bricking up the grave that yawned on the right hand side of the lawn.
“Where is Mrs. Gerome?”
“In the parlor. Once I heard her pacing the floor very rapidly, and saying something to her dog. Since then—two hours ago—not a sound has reached me.”
“She has taken no food?”
“No, sir. The servant who prepared her breakfast knocked twice at the door, but was refused admittance.”
Dr. Grey went into the hall, and rapped vigorously on the door, but there was no movement within.
“Mrs. Gerome, please permit me to speak to you for a few minutes. If it were not necessary, I would not disturb you.”
The appeal produced no effect; and, without hesitating, he walked to the door of the library or rear parlor,—took the key from his pocket, opened it, and entered.
The dog was asleep on the velvet rug before the hearth, and his mistress sat at her escritoire, with her arms resting on the blue desk, and her face hidden upon them. A number of letters and papers were scattered about, and, in an open drawer a silver casket was visible, with a pearl key in its lock.
Before the marble Harpocrates stood two slender violet-colored Venetian glasses, representing tulips, and filled with fuchsias and clematis that were dropping their faded velvet petals, and the atmosphere was sweet with the breath of carnations and mignonette blooming in the south window.