“What was the name of him you loved?”
Maud pressed her hand upon her brow for a moment as if striving to comprehend the question; then she replied,—
“His name was William Heriot.”
“Then follow me, and speak not for his sake, as you hold his memory dear.”
“To the world’s end! To the world’s end!” said Maud.
Ada heard the outer door now close, and she was sure that Gray was in the passage. He might, or he might not, enter the room in which she and Maud were, the door of which was within a few paces of the steps. Oh, how dreadful to poor Ada were the few short, but to her awful moments that elapsed before she felt convinced that Gray had passed the door, he always trod slowly and stealthily even in that lone house, for caution and suspicion had grown so habitual with him, that even in security he could not shake off the actions which rendered those feelings manifest.
It was difficult, therefore, for Ada to trace his footsteps, or come to any positive conclusion as to what part of the house he had proceeded towards.
One thing only she could feel certain of from the duration of time, and that was, that the immediate danger of his entering the room in which she and Maud were was past, unless he were lingering in the passage, which she had never yet known him to do.
A few more minutes of great anxiety now passed, during which Maud did not speak, but rocked to and fro in her chair, sighing deeply, as if the sound of her murdered lover’s name had affected her deeply.
“Maud,” said Ada. “Maud, attend to me.”