"Well, if we fail, I shall give orders for a couple of men to search the shrubberies. And whatever they find they shall bring straight to Bebe."
"They will find nothing," says Bebe, with an obstinacy quite foreign to her.
I take Marmaduke's arm and cling to him. He looks down at me amused.
"Why, you are trembling you little goose. Perhaps you had better stay here."
"What! all alone!" I cry, aghast. "Never I would be dead by the time you came back. No, I would rather see it out."
So we all march solemnly upstairs, armed with lights, to investigate this awful mystery.
Sir James and Thornton take the lead, as I decline to separate from Marmaduke or to go anywhere but in the middle. Not for worlds would I head the procession and be the first to come up with what may be store for us. With an equal horror I shrink from being last—fearful of being grabbed by something uncanny in the background.
The whole scene is evidently an intense amusement to the men, and even Harriet, to my disgust, finds some element of the burlesque about it. The lamps upon the staircase and along the corridors throw shadows everywhere, and are not reassuring. Once Mr. Thornton, stalking on in front, gives way to a dismal howl, and, stopping short, throws himself into an attitude of abject fear that causes me to nearly weep: so I entreat him, in touching accents, not to do it again without reason.
Another time, either Harriet or Bebe—who are walking close behind me (having ordered Lord Chandos to the extreme rear, as a further precaution)—lays her hand lightly on my shoulder, whereupon I shriek aloud and precipitate myself into Marmaduke's arms.
At length we reach the dreaded spot, and Thornton, after a few whispered words with Sir James, flings up the window, and, with what appears to me reckless courage, steps out upon the darksome balcony alone.