All the same, urged by a strange feeling of alarm, he tapped again, but still without result; and once more he looked round at the strange group gathered upon the broad landing—the police in great-coats, and lantern-bearing; the butler with his candlestick and pistol; the two gentlemen in evening dress, with their light overcoats and crush hats in hand.
Just then a door opened, and every one drew back to allow the pretty little vision that burst upon their sight to pass them by.
The figure was that of Cynthia, with her crisp, fair hair lightly tied back, so that it floated down loosely over the loose wide peignoir of creamy cashmere trimmed with blue, which formed a costume, as it swept from her in graceful folds, far more becoming than the most ravishing toilet from a Parisian modiste. She held a little silver candlestick, with bell glass to shade the light, and as she came forward, looking very composed and firm, though rather pale, Artingale felt for the moment as if he could have emulated Perry-Morton, and fallen down to kiss her pretty little slipper-covered feet.
“Ah, my dear!” exclaimed the Rector, “I am glad you have come. I cannot make Julia hear.”
Cynthia darted a quick glance at Artingale, full of dread and dismay, and then without a word she passed on and laid her hand upon the china knob of Julia’s door. Then she hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment, before turning the handle and going in, the door swinging to behind her.
Cynthia held her candle above her head and gave one glance round, the light falling on Julia’s wedding dress and veil; the wreath was on a table, side by side with the jewels that had been presented to her. Over other chairs and in half-packed trunks were travelling and other costumes, with the endless little signs of preparation for leaving home.
Cynthia gave one glance round her with dilating eyes; ran into the dressing-room and back looked at the unpressed bed, and then she let fall the candlestick as she sank on her knees uttering a loud cry, and covering her face with her hands.
It was no time for ceremony, and at the cry the Rector rushed in, followed by Artingale, Magnus stopping at the door to keep back the police and the servants, who would have entered too, both the men from below having now joined the group.
As the Rector ran in with Artingale, Cynthia started up once more.
“Oh, papa! oh, Harry!” she cried, piteously, “Julie has gone!”