St. George turned to Horn again: “Very good idea, Richard—wonder I hadn't thought of it before. I should probably had I not expected him every minute. And he was so glad to come. He told me he had never forgotten the dinner at Kennedy's some years ago, and when he heard you would be here as well, his whole face lighted up. I was also greatly struck with the improvement in his appearance, he seemed more a man of the world than when I first knew him—carried himself better and was more carefully dressed. This morning when I went in he—”
The door opened silently, and Todd, trembling all over, laid his hand on his master's shoulder, cutting short his dissertation.
“Marse George, please sah, can I speak to you a minute?” The boy looked as if he had just seen a ghost.
“Speak to me! Why haven't you taken my message, Todd?”
“Yes, sah—dat is—can't ye step in de hall a minute, Marse George—now—right away?”
“The hall!—what for?—is there anything the matter?”
St. George pushed back his chair and followed Todd from the room: something had gone wrong—something demanding instant attention or Todd wouldn't be scared out of his wits. Those nearest him, who had overheard Todd's whispered words, halted in their talk in the hope of getting some clew to the situation; others, further away, kept on, unconscious that anything unusual had taken place.
Several minutes passed.
Again the door swung wide, and a man deathly pale, erect, faultlessly dressed in a full suit of black, the coat buttoned close to his chin, his cavernous eyes burning like coals of fire, entered on St. George's arm and advanced toward the group.
Every guest was on his feet in an instant.