Krool, with a gesture, stopped him.
"Mrs. Byng is come now," he said, making a gesture towards the staircase. Then he stole away towards the servants' quarters of the house. His work had been well done, of its kind, and he could now await consequences.
Stafford turned to the staircase and saw—in blue, in the old sentimental blue—Jasmine slowly descending, a strange look of apprehension in her face.
Immediately after calling out for Rudyard a little while before, she had discovered the loss of Adrian Fellowes' letter. Hours before this she had read and re-read Ian's letter, that document of pain and purpose, of tragical, inglorious, fatal purpose. She was suddenly conscious of an air of impending catastrophe about her now. Or was it that the catastrophe had come? She had not asked for Adrian Fellowes' letter, for if any servant had found it, and had not returned it, it was useless asking; and if Rudyard had found it—if Rudyard had found it...!
Where was Rudyard? Why had he not come to her, Why had he not eaten the breakfast which still lay untouched on the table of his study? Where was Rudyard?
Ian's eyes looked straight into hers as she came down the staircase, and there was that in them which paralyzed her. But she made an effort to ignore the apprehension which filled her soul.
"Good-morning. Am I so very late?" she said, gaily, to him, though there was a hollow note in her voice.
"You are just in time," he answered in an even tone which told nothing.
"Dear me, what a gloomy face! What has happened? What is it? There seems to be a Cassandra atmosphere about the place—and so early in the day, too."
"It is full noon—and past," he said, with acute meaning, as her daintily shod feet met the floor of the hallway and glided towards him. How often he had admired that pretty flitting of her feet!