“I wonder if I have done right,” the woman muttered uneasily, as she closed the door. “I have taken a great responsibility upon myself in deciding the fate of my young mistress. I almost wish that I had let him see her, but she is so young and tender and pitiful, she would be sure to take him back again. His eyes will haunt me. He looked as a man might look on his way to execution.”
At that moment the library door was tried from the hall, and an imperious little knock sounded upon the panels.
“Peters,” cried Lally, from without, in an agitated voice, “let me in! let me in!”
Peters calmed her face, and hastened to unlock the door.
Lally swept in impetuously, her gypsy face aglow, her black eyes full of fire, her chest panting. She held in one hand a gentleman’s glove, which she had just picked up from the hall floor.
Her keen eyes swept the room, and her countenance fell with disappointment at finding Mrs. Peters alone.
“I heard a carriage go away just now, Peters,” she cried. “Who has been here?”
“Was it not the wind, Miss?” cried Peters, flushing.
“No; I heard wheels going down the drive. And here is something I found in the hall, Peters—a man’s glove. Whose is it?”
“It might be Toppen’s, Miss—”