There must have been a slight roughness in the carpet which slid upon the slippery floor, for the Dame d'Héronac stumbled a little and then gasped:
"He—knows that——!"
And by the time they all reached the salon, her rosy cheeks were pale, while the pupils of her violet eyes were so large as to make them appear to be black as night.
The gay sprite of the dinner-table seemed to have taken her departure and a dignified and serious hostess filled her place. A hostess who discoursed of gardens, and architecture, and such subjects—and at ten o'clock when the Père Anselme gave his blessing and wished the company good-night, also gave a white hand to her guests, saying that Madame Imogen would show them the small salon where they could smoke and have their drinks before retiring to their rooms, then she bowed to them and walked off slowly to her part of the house.
When she had gone, Michael said a little hoarsely to Henry:
"I have got the fiend of a headache, old man. I think I won't smoke, but turn in at once."
An hour or two later, when the whole château was wrapped in darkness—the mistress of it crept from her bed-room to the great sitting-room, and turning on the light, she unlocked a blue despatch-box which stood beside her writing-table. From this she took a letter, marked a little with former perusals—and she read it over once more from beginning to end.
It had
Arranstoun Castle,
Scotland,
stamped upon it in red and it bore a date in June, 1907. It had no beginning and thus it ran: