"Is Mr. Trevlyn in?" she asked, trembling in spite of herself.
"I believe Mr. Trevlyn has left the country, madam."
"Left the country? When did he go?"
"Some days ago."
Margie leaned against the carved marble vase which flanked the massive doorway, unconsciously crushing the crimson petals of the trumpet-flower which grew therein. What should she do? She could write to him. His wife would know his address. She caught at the idea.
"Mrs. Trevlyn—take me to her! She was an old friend of mine."
The man looked at her curiously, hesitated a moment, and motioning her to enter, indicated the closed door of the parlor.
"You can go in, I presume, as you are a friend of the family."
A feeling of solemnity, which was almost awe, stole over Margie as she turned the handle of the door, and stepped inside the parlor. It was shrouded in the gloom of almost utter darkness. The heavy silken curtains fell drooping with their costliness to the velvet carpet, and a faint, sickening odor of withering water lilies pervaded the close atmosphere. Water lilies!—they were Alexandrine's favorite flowers.
Margie stopped by the door until her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and then she saw that the centre of the room was occupied by a table, on which lay some rigid object—strangely long, and still, and angular—covered with a drapery of black velvet, looped up by dying water lilies.