. . . "Gilbert, how silly to try and frighten me! It's not cricket in this horrid place, get down at once—oh!"
The girl shrieked. Her voice rang through the vault-like place.
Gilbert ran, turned a corner, and saw Rita.
She was swaying from side to side. Her face was quite white, even the lips were bloodless. She was staring with terrified eyes to where upon the low dais and behind the confining rail a figure was standing—a wax-work figure.
Gilbert caught the girl by the hands. They were as cold as ice.
"Dear!" he said in wild agitation. "What is it? I'm here, don't be frightened. What is it, Rita?"
She gave a great sob of relief and clung to his hands. A trace of colour began to flow into her cheeks.
"Thank goodness," she said, gasping. "Oh, Gilbert, I'm a fool. I've been so frightened."
"But, dear, what by?"
"By that——"