Three o’clock came, and Joe was just about creeping to the library window to address Mr. Armour, when his practised ear told him that two carriages were coming down the avenue. He drew behind a tree trunk and watched until he saw the cabs stop before the door, and five people leaving them and entering the house.
Ah! here at last was his worshiped Miss Debbiline, safe and well, her eyes only a trifle heavy from her night’s dissipation. The spirits had spared her, and he could now go happily to his camp, but first he would take a final view of what was transpiring in the library, for to that room would Miss Debbiline probably repair.
The delicate rose curtains waving to and fro in the night wind afforded him a sufficient screen, and bending his supple body he lingered on, observing what appeared even to his untutored mind to be a succession of strange and unusual scenes.
Away at the other end of the room, with his back against the bookshelves, stood Mr. Armour, rigid and motionless, his eyes glued to the face of the peaceful, white-haired stranger whom Dr. Camperdown was ushering into the room.
“Stanton, you know this man,” Joe heard Dr. Camperdown say in a harsh, resonant voice—then his attention was distracted by a rustling near him.
Vivienne, with her finger on her lips, and holding up the train of her white dress, was gliding like a fairy to his side. “I saw you from the window above, Joe,” she murmured. “Let me stand beside you. Mr. Armour,” with a catching of her breath, “will not allow me to enter the room, but I shall go in this way presently. Do not go,” and she made a commanding gesture as the Indian was about to creep away, “I may want you.”
“Me no stan’ beside ghos’ flower,” said Joe, gazing at the darkened blossoms across her breast.
The agitated girl looked down at the flowers, whose dainty heads, as if weary of asking fruitless questions, had—unperceived by her—drooped and blackened till they were uncanny and repulsive in their appearance.
With something like a sob she caught them in her hand and threw them far away.
“Ghos’ flower always turnum black,” said Joe, “when pickum,” then immensely flattered at being told to remain, he stepped a little nearer to her, and resumed his scrutiny of the room.