His face wore an amused expression: his dark eyes—and they were looking dark as purple in the morning light—were dancing with mirth. I turned cross. Some foolish thought, that Mr. Chandos would make a confidant of me in the morning, had run into my mind in the night.
"I don't possess a cloak, young lady."
"At any rate, sir, I saw you in one. A short one, a sort of cape. I saw your face quite plainly when you were looking up at the windows. The moon was as bright as day, and shining full upon you."
"It must decidedly have been my ghost, Miss Hereford."
"No, sir; it was yourself. I don't believe in ghosts. When you had finished your dance in and out of the trees, you crossed the grass to the laurel walk that leads down by the west wing."
"What do you say?"
The tone was an abrupt one; the manner had entirely changed: something like a glance of fear shot across the face of Mr. Chandos. But at that moment Hill came in.
"So you are back, Hill!" he exclaimed.
"I have been back an hour, sir. Mrs. Freeman's no worse, and I came by the Parliamentary train. And it is well I did come," added she, "for I found my lady ill!"
Mr. Chandos swung himself short round on his heel. "My mother ill! what is the matter with her?"