“I did not—I am sorry to say,” stammered out the girl, confused and self-accused, “very sorry I didn’t.”
“And why didn’t you, Gibbons? explain that.”
Thus brought to book, the peccant Gibbons confesses to what has occurred in all its details. No use concealing aught—it must come out anyhow.
“And you’re quite sure she has not slept in her room?” interrogates Miss Linton, as yet unable to realise a circumstance so strange and unexpected.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. The bed hasn’t been lied upon by anybody—neither sheets or coverlet disturbed. And there’s her nightdress over the chair, just as I laid it out for her.”
“Very strange,” exclaims Miss Linton, “positively alarming.”
For all, the old lady is not alarmed yet—at least, not to any great degree. Llangorren Court is a “house of many mansions,” and can boast of a half-score spare bedrooms. And she, now its mistress, is a creature of many caprices. Just possible she has indulged in one after the dancing—entered the first sleeping apartment that chanced in her way, flung herself on a bed or sofa in her ball dress, fallen asleep, and is there still slumbering.
“Search them all!” commands Miss Linton, addressing a variety of domestics, whom the ringing of bells has brought around her.
They scatter off in different directions, Miss Lees along with them.
“It’s very extraordinary. Don’t you think so?”