“Sharles ze Foorst—risen from ze dead!” announced Rippley.
“I say”—the affected drawl discovered Ffolliott. “Rippley told me it was a—fancy-dress—affair,” he said plaintively. “And to come early.”
There was a wild shout of laughter.
Ffolliott looked round nervously at the strange faces, and recognising Aubrey at last, by the mirror, he said peevishly:
“I am exceedingly displeased with Rippley—he—he chose my dress.”
Rippley wiped the tears from his eyes:
“Well—don’t you see we are nearly all in disguise? ... except Aubrey, who thinks that because he looks like an ass no one will know him.” He turned to the others: “I say, boys,” he added, chuckling, “things are beginning to move at last. This is going to be a unique night.”
“Hush!”
They had all turned to Blotte, and a strange silence fell upon the room.
Andrew Blotte stood listening, as to some strange sounds. He roused: