Maradick began to be vaguely irritated and at last annoyed. There was something unpleasant in that monotonous little tune coming out of the darkness from nowhere at all; its note of freedom seemed to become rapidly something lawless and undisciplined. Had he put it into pictures, he would have said that the open plain that he had seen before became suddenly darkened, and, through the gloom, strange animals passed and wild, savage faces menaced him. Afterwards, in the full light of day, such thoughts would seem folly, but now, in the darkened room, anything was possible. He did not believe in apparitions—ghosts were unknown in Epsom—but he was suddenly unpleasantly aware that he would give anything to be able to fling a glance back over his shoulder.
Then suddenly the spell was broken. The tune died away, revived for an instant, and then came to an abrupt end.
Morelli joined the circle.
“Thank you so very much,” said Maradick. “That was delightful.” But he was aware that, although the little tune had been played again and again, it had already completely passed from his memory. He could not recall it.
“What was the name of it?” he asked.
“It has no name,” Morelli answered, smiling. “It’s an old tune that has been passed down from one to another. There is something rather quaint in it, and it has many centuries behind it.”
Then Tony got up, and to Maradick’s intense astonishment said: “I say, Maradick, it’s time we were going, it’s getting awfully late.”
He had been willing to give the boy as long a rope as he pleased, and now—but then he understood. It was the perfect moment that must not be spoiled by any extension. If they waited something might happen. He understood the boy as far as that, at any rate.
Morelli pressed them to stay, but Tony was firm. He went forward and said good night to Miss Minns, then he turned to Janet.
“Good night, Miss Morelli,” he said.