He had to go to London to buy some articles of mourning—gloves and a hat-band, and so on, which he could not obtain in primitive Oakfield—and so he passed down St. James’s Street within a stone’s-throw of Trafford.
He walked from the station to Deepdale and rang the bell. No one came immediately, and the door being open, he walked into the little hall. As he did so, he heard a faint cry of amazement, and—as it seemed to him, horror—and turning sharply, saw, through the door of the drawing-room, Lady Wyndover standing looking at him with white face and startled eyes, as if she had sprung up at the sound of his footsteps.
He entered the room with outstretched hand.
“Lady Wyndover, I am sorry I startled you. Please forgive me!”
She did not seem to see his hand, but stared at him breathlessly.
“You! Where is—Esmeralda?” she gasped.
With his hand still extended, Norman returned her gaze with one almost as startled and bewildered as her own.
“Esmeralda!” he echoed; and he looked up at the ceiling helplessly. “Esmeralda? Where? She is here, is she not?”
Lady Wyndover stifled a cry and pointed a shaking hand at the door.
He closed it and stood regarding her wonderingly. Had she taken leave of her senses? She looked ill and anxious, and her manner was fearfully strange.