Rosalind stopped breathing and waited. Mr. Davidson held up a warning finger. The young man in the chair looked expectant.
The first footstep was followed by others. There was nothing stealthy about them; they were frank, careless, and unconcerned. Somebody was walking along the upper hall!
An instant later the footsteps were on the staircase, descending leisurely. The tableau in the library was held without a quiver by its actors. Their eyes were staring toward the doorway that led into the hall. Rosalind was rigid as bronze. She alone knew what the footsteps portended. The game was up!
Very deliberately they came nearer and nearer. She even found herself counting them mechanically. It was like the approach of nemesis. Had the boatman gone mad again?
The footsteps were in the hall now. Mr. Davidson's stout body began to quiver; he was poised as if for a spring, his eyes ablaze with determination, his hands—
A young man in white flannels walked into the library.
He was slender and tall and immaculate. Under his coat he wore a delicately striped silk shirt. His collar and scarf were beyond criticism. His canvas shoes were spotless.
A casual observer would have noted but one unusual fact; the upper half of his face was deeply tanned, while his cheeks, his lip and his chin were pallid. He was cleanly shaved.
"Hello, folks!" he grinned.
Mr. Davidson made the spring for which he had been poised.