“I daren’t, my lady!” the man Talbot trembled.
Someone laughed.
“Who laughed?” cried Shelmerdene.
De Travest snapped: “Why are you going, man? What’s your hurry?”
“But who is he talking to?” sobbed Lady Pynte.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Dame Warp bitterly.
“You there, who are you?” snapped de Travest.
“Gently, Guy, gently!” said Mr. Warp. “Let us not provoke him. Let us not provoke anyone.”
“Oh!” screamed Lady Surplice, and then it was that everyone realised to the full what ghastly portent it was that held the grim attention of the Lord Chancellor and Guy de Travest. For, said Dwight-Rankin, the flames of the twelve candles on the whatdoyoucallem were one by one being obscured before their very eyes, as by a presence passing between them and the candles towards the door; and as the presence passed on its way, so each small flame was again visible.
“But I can’t bear this!” sobbed Lady Surplice. “What does it mean? Why doesn’t someone speak? Is this a time for silence?”