An ornate writing-table filled up one corner of the room, and, opposite the two windows, covering the whole of the blank wall, was a narrow glass case running from floor to ceiling.
From this case young Burton quickly averted his eyes, for it was filled with wax models of heads which might have been modelled from the denizens of Dante's Inferno.
"I'm afraid I must now leave you for a moment," he said gently; "sit over here, Mrs. Dampier, and look out on the river."
And Nancy obeyed with dull submission. She gazed on the bright, moving panorama before her, aware, in a misty, indifferent way, that the view was beautiful, that Jack would have thought it so.
This bend of the Seine is always laden with queer, picturesque craft, and just below the window by which she sat was moored a flat-bottomed barge which evidently served as dwelling place for a very happy little family. One end of the barge had been turned into a kind of garden, there was even a vine-covered arbour, under which two tiny children were now playing some absorbing game.
And this glimpse of ordinary normal life gradually brought a feeling of peace, almost of comfort, to Nancy's sore heart. She wondered if she would ever be happy again—happy as those little children playing outside were happy, without a thought of care in the world: that had been the kind of simple, unquestioning happiness she too had thoughtlessly enjoyed till the last three days.
When Gerald Burton came back he was glad rather than grieved to see that tears were running down her face.
But a moment later, as they followed their guide down a humid, dark passage her tears stopped, and a look of pinched terror came into her eyes.
Suddenly there fell on their ears loud, whirring, jarring sounds.
"What's that?" cried Nancy in a loud voice. Her nerves were taut with suspense, quivering with fear of what she was about to see.