Dulce and Portia, crossing the hall, go down the north corridor that leads to the library Fabian has just vacated. A heavy crimson curtain conceals a door on one side, and, as they pass, a figure, emerging from behind it, brushes somewhat brusquely against Portia, filling her with sudden alarm.
This figure, as it appears in the vague gloaming, is bowed and bent, and altogether uncanny.
Portia, shrinking closer to Dulce, lays her hand upon her arm.
"Ah! what was that?" she says, fearfully.
"Only Gregory Slyme," returns Dulce, quickly, "you are not frightened at him, poor old thing, are you? Have you not seen him before?"
"No," says Portia, with a shudder and a backward glance at the shrunken figure creeping away down the corridor as if ashamed of itself.
"No?—that is strange; but he has affected his own room a good deal of late."
"But who is he?" anxiously.
"He was Uncle Christopher's secretary for years, and calls himself that still, but Fabian does all the writing now."
"What a start he gave me," says Portia, putting her hand hurriedly to her heart as though in pain. "A chill seemed to rush all through my blood. It was as though I had met something that had worked, and would work, me harm!"