She kissed the old housekeeper upon the forehead and was going out when she heard the latter murmur as though to herself,
"The black horse may mean Jacques."
"Have you heard nothing from him in his new position?" she asked, turning at the door.
"Non," she answered sharply. "Go to bed."
So the girl went on into a darkness that she, too, found ridden by black horses.
For three generations the Arsdales had been a family of whom those who claim New York as their inheritance had known both much and little. It was impossible to ignore the silent part Horace Arsdale, the grandfather, had played in the New York business world or the quiet influence he had exerted in such musical and literary centres as existed in his day. Any one who knew anybody would answer an inquiry as to who they might be with a surprised lift of the eyebrows.
"The Arsdales? Why they are—the Arsdales."
"But what—"
"Oh, they are a queer lot. But they have brains and—money."
Horace Arsdale died in an asylum, and there were the usual ugly rumors as to what brought him there. He left a son Benjamin, and Benjamin built the present Arsdale house at a time when it was like building in the wilderness. Here he shut himself up with his bride, a French girl he had met on his travels. Ask any one who Benjamin Arsdale was and they would be apt to answer,