“Lead the way!” the young man said, impatiently, and bore his lovely burden to the house.
The man unlocked the door and exposed a wide, tiled hall, with marble statues glimmering whitely here and there, and a broad, shallow stairway of black oak, dimly lighted by overhanging gas-jets. Up this splendid stairway Harold Castello followed the woman to a magnificent suite of rooms, luxuriously furnished in white and gold, glowing in warmth and light and perfume, from rare vases of exotic flowers. It was a veritable bridal-bower, and no expense had been spared to make it worthy the occupancy of a queen.
Harold Castello entered the dainty boudoir and laid his stolen bride upon a soft, white couch, kissed her pale, cold lips, then turned to the woman, who had the air of a ladies’ maid.
“She has fainted. Of course you will know how to restore her, Suzanne,” he said, anxiously.
“Yes, monsieur, you may trust me,” smiled the trim maid.
“Very well,” he said; then added: “And you may change her traveling clothing for a pretty white robe de chambre, so that she will feel more comfortable. When she is ready to see me I shall be waiting at the door.”
He retired to a luxurious suite of rooms across the hall, to smoke a cigar and wait, with mingled eagerness and trepidation, for the interview with his stolen bride, the fair and hapless Violet.
Meanwhile Suzanne was busy with her unconscious charge.
She brought from the dressing-room a robe of soft, silvery white silk, with a loose front trimmed in billowy cascades of frosty white lace. Then she proceeded to undress Violet and array her lovely form in the dainty garment. Then, and not till then, did she make the least effort to restore Violet from her heavy swoon.
While she bathed the pale face and hands in eau de cologne, she gazed in amazement and delight at the exquisite face and form, the curly golden tresses, the marvelous grace of the hapless girl.