"Oh! and madame—how long has she been his wife?"
"She is still a bride, monsieur."
"Still a bride, is she? How exceedingly pleasant." Mr. Percy had evidently recovered from his panic. "Was she a miss when she married the master of Oakley?"
"Oh, no, monsieur; a widow."
"Widow?" stroking his whiskers caressingly. "What name?"
"Madame Torrance, monsieur."
"Madame Torrance, eh? Well, my good girl, take this," offering a bank note. "I really thought that Madame Torrance, I mean Arthur, was an old friend; however, it seems I was mistaken. Now, my girl, go and tell that lady that a gentleman desires to see her, and do not announce me to Miss Arthur yet. May I depend upon you?" glancing at her keenly.
Taking the offered money, she made an obeisance, and withdrew.
The little parlor had but one means of egress—through the door by which Mr. Percy had entered. This door was near the angle of the room; so near that, as it swung inward, it almost grazed against a huge high-backed chair, stiff and grim, but reckoned among the elegant pieces of furniture that are always, or nearly always, uncomfortable. This chair occupied the angle, and behind its capacious back was comfortable room for one or two persons, should they fancy occupying a position so secluded. The act of opening the door completely screened this chair from the view of any person not directly opposite it, until such time as the door should be again closed.