“Hush!” she whispered. “I want a word with you, Valencia. Tell the butler to wait there—I’m going again in a minute.”
“Stay there, Braxfield,” said Valencia. “Mrs. Tretheroe’ll want letting out presently. Come along here,” she continued, going towards the lighted room. “What is it?”
Mrs. Tretheroe followed the girl inside the pantry, half closed the door, and threw back her veil and her heavy cloak. In spite of her wonder, Valencia could not avoid staring at her in admiration. Mrs. Tretheroe was in her finest feathers, a wonderful dinner-gown, the like of which Valencia had never seen; diamonds were in her chestnut-hued hair and at her white throat; her violet eyes were alive with excitement; her scarlet lips were slightly parted; Valencia realized that this was a much more beautiful woman than she had previously thought her to be. And for the first time she began to realize, too, that she was a dangerous one.
The violet eyes looked sharply round the room before settling on the girl’s face. There was a question in them—her lips repeated it.
“Your brother—Guy? Is he here?”
“No!” answered Valencia. “He’s not!”
Mrs. Tretheroe’s fine eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown.
“But—my coachman, Burton, tells me that he saw him, this evening, coming here?” she said half-petulantly. “He must be here!”
“He isn’t,” retorted Valencia. “He’s been here—and he’s gone.”
“Gone? Where?”