"Ready, Mrs. Fowler?" he piped up hopefully, and a chord from the piano silenced the talk.
Macgowan leaned forward, intent, drinking in the music with eager senses. He was supremely content with the world, supremely confident in himself and his ability. This was his hour of relaxation, of triumph. Success had crowned his talents, and in the past week he had been drinking deep from the cup of victory.
As the final chords of the music died away, Macgowan was aware of the maid, who leaned over his shoulder with a quiet word.
"There's a gentleman in the hall, sir, who wants to see you. He wouldn't give his name or come inside."
Macgowan nodded, and under cover of the applause, rose and left the room. He passed out into the entrance-hall and closed the room door behind him. The closing of that door was symbolic, had he but known it.
He found himself face to face with Robert Dorns, and behind Dorns was the blue-clad figure of an officer.
"Come along, Mac," said Dorns.
CHAPTER X
The old-fashioned Deming mansion in Evansville, so often a witness to scenes of gayety or sorrow or boredom, was to-day shrouded in a singular and terrible air of hushed expectancy. Voices were low, every action was tense. Old Doctor Irvin, curator of the family's health these two-score years and more, had come over from Louisville, and through the high halls flitted two white-capped nurses. The servants were tremulous, afraid, gulping in their throats.