Littimer spoke evenly and quietly, with his eyes full upon the girl. He was deceiving himself, but he was not deceiving her for a moment. His callousness seemed to be all the more marked because the servants were in the room. But Christabel could see clearly what an effort it was.
"You love your wife still," she said, so low that only Littimer heard.
His eyes flashed, his face flamed with a sudden spasm of passion.
"Are we to quarrel so early as this?" he whispered.
"I never quarrel," Christabel said, coolly; "I leave my antagonist to do that. But I have met your son, and I like him. He may be weak, but he is a gentleman. You have made a mistake, and some day you will be sorry for it. Do you grow those orchids yourself?"
Littimer laughed, with no sign of anger remaining. All the same, Christabel could see that his thin brown hand was shaking. She noticed the lines that pain had given under those shrewd black eyes.
"You must see my orchids," he said. "Most of the specimens I obtained myself. They tell me I have at least three unique kinds. And now, if you will permit me, I am going to smoke. The drawing-room is at your disposal, though I rarely enter it myself. I always retire at eleven, but that need not bind you in any way. It has been altogether a most delightful evening."
But Christabel did not dally long in the drawing-room. As she went upstairs and along the corridor she heard the snapping of the electric lights all over the house as the servants were preparing to retire. She paused just a moment in the alcove where the precious Rembrandt was and located carefully the position of the switch there. Then she retired to her own room, where she changed her dress for a simple black gown. A big clock somewhere was striking twelve as she finished. She looked out of her door. The whole house was in darkness, the silence seemed to cling like a curtain.
She paused for a moment as if afraid to take the next step. If it was fear, she shook it aside resolutely and crept into the corridor. She carried something shining in her hands—something that gleamed in the dim, uncertain light from the big window. She stood just for an instant with a feeling that somebody was climbing up the ivy outside the house. She felt her way along until she came to the alcove containing the Rembrandt and then she stopped. Her hand slid along the wall till her fingers touched the switch of the electric light.
She stood for a long time there perfectly motionless. It was a still night outside, and there was nothing to account for the rustling of the ivy leaves. The rattling came in jerks, spasmodically, stopping every now and then and resuming again. It was no longer a matter of imagination, it was a certainty. Somebody was climbing up the ivy to the window.
Leaning eagerly forward, Christabel could hear the sound of laboured breathing. She seemed to see the outline of an arm outside, she could catch the quick rattle of the sash, she could almost see a bent wire crooked through the beaded edges of the casement. Yes, she was right. The window swung noiselessly back and a figure stood poised on the ledge outside.