Lorelie lowered the glass quickly, in real or feigned disappointment.
"O-oh!" she murmured, pouting. "A pity—that! I cannot bear Malvazia: it always gives me the headache. I must refrain from drinking.—And yet," she added, inhaling the fragrance, "the bouquet is tempting."
She toyed a moment or two with the glass, as if about to drink, but finally set it down upon the table, glancing at the two men with a silvery laugh. Her radiant air contrasted strangely with the sombre spirit which seemed to enwrap both of them.
"This is a very pretty chamber," she said, poising her head upon her hands, and affecting to survey the crypt with interest. "Nothing very terrible about it, after all. I might have spared myself the letter to Dr. Rothwell."
"What is that?" said the earl, with a quick nervous start.
"Peccavi! I have done very wrong, I admit," said Lorelie, with a sweet smile. "I have ventured to disobey your command that I should tell nobody of this, our midnight adventure: for, as one never knows what may happen when visiting the haunts of the dead, I could not refrain from communicating with Dr. Rothwell on the matter. He is aware of this visit of ours to the crypt. Commend my wisdom, my lord, in thus taking precautions to secure our safe return."
Never did human countenance change so quickly as did that of the earl at these words. He glanced at Ivar. Dismay was reflected in the eyes of each.
"Here is the note I received from him this afternoon," continued Lorelie imperturbably, drawing forth the communication and tossing it carelessly upon the table. "You observe his words. 'Dear Lady Walden, I give you my promise that if I do not meet you at the porch of Ravenhall to-morrow morning at eight, I will come and seek you in the vault."
"He would have some trouble in finding it," sneered the earl.
"Not at all. Dr. Rothwell knows his way to this crypt as well as you or Ivar. He made a secret visit here on April the tenth of this year, the night on which Ivar returned home from the continent."