She kept on her way until she came out by the lodge, where she saw John Mellen, who was both gardener and porter, sitting upon the porch.
He looked greatly surprised as the light from the lantern at the gate fell upon her face.
“Is anything the matter, marm?” he asked, touching his hat respectfully, but wondering to see her there at that hour, with no wrap, while he noticed that she was very pale.
“No, John; but have you seen anything of Miss Gladstone?” she asked.
“Yes, marm; she came running down here about half an hour ago, looking like a wraith, and bounded up stairs like a fawn, to the old gentleman’s room,” he answered.
“Is she there now?” Mrs. Richards demanded, quickly, her lips settling down into a hard, straight line.
“Yes’m—leastways, I’ve not seen her come down yet.”
The woman bent her head in thought a moment, then briefly remarked:
“I think I’ll go up.”
Gathering her rustling skirts in her hand, she passed inside the lodge, mounted the stairs with a noiseless tread, and paused before Mr. Rosevelt’s door.