One of its columns was headed, "Terrible fire at Paris. Burning of the Hôtel de l'Univers." The earl's forefinger, moving down a list of victims, stopped at the name, "Idris Marville, aged 23."
Ivar's features relaxed something of their dismay.
"Satisfactory from my point of view," he muttered.
"None but you and I know this secret, but it is perpetually open to discovery as long as that church and its records exist. You now see the necessity for this match with Beatrice. Ravenhall and the coronet are really hers. Marry her then, and you will thus secure your position as lord of Ravenhall.—What is your answer?"
"Humph! Suppose it'll have to be."
The sullen look on Ivar's face caused his father to elevate his eyebrows in surprise. It certainly did seem strange that the viscount, who had pronounced Beatrice to be "devilishly handsome," should evince dissatisfaction at the prospect of marrying her!
* * * * * *
The sleeping apartment allotted to Godfrey Rothwell contained the most luxurious bed he had ever occupied, and he speedily fell into a sound sleep, from which he was abruptly roused by a noise in the corridor outside his bedroom door.
He sat up and listened. Before stepping into bed he had switched off the electric light, but the darkness now became faintly illumined by a horizontal line of light appearing at the foot of the door. Its origin was obvious: some one was walking in the corridor and bearing a lamp or candle.
The line of light had no sooner appeared than it disappeared, showing that the person had passed by.