[CHAPTER II.]
ARRIVAL OF BUT ONE GUEST AT A DINNER FOR THIRTEEN.
Leaving Michael Lee at his post outside the door, Gideon Rowe went to the folding windows, and drew the curtains over them. He lingered at the window to inhale the faint perfume of lavender which the breeze brought into the room.
"Summer is dying," he murmured.
Beautiful as was the evening, there was something inexpressibly sad in the appearance of this room, with its dim light, and the black clothing of the attendants, who moved about like shadows.
"Mr. Steele," said Gideon Rowe, "you understand that the first guest who arrives will preside at the head of the table. I will wait upon him myself."
"As heretofore, sir?"
"As heretofore."
All the arrangements being completed, the attendants stood in silence behind the chairs, forming a black hedge around the table. Gideon Rowe glanced anxiously at the clock. The hands indicated eighteen minutes to seven. That he was singularly and powerfully agitated was evident, but he controlled his excitement by a strong effort. Another minute passed and another. The clock struck three-quarters past six, steps were heard on the veranda, and almost immediately afterwards Michael Lee opened the door by which he was stationed, and advancing a step, called out:
"Mr. Richard Weston."