With the tea-things, disappeared Mr. Chandos; and a sensation of loneliness fell upon me. At what? At his exit, or at my previous alarm in the pine-walk? I might have asked myself, but did not. He came back again shortly, remarking that it was a fine night.
"Have you been out, sir?"
"No. I have been to my mother's rooms."
"Is she better this evening?"
"Much the same."
He stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his hand lifted to his head; evidently in deep thought, a strange look of anxiety, of pain, in the expression of his countenance. I went over to a side table to get something out of my workbox; and, not to disturb him by going back again, I softly pulled aside the muslin window-curtain to look out for a minute on the dusky, still night.
What was it made me spring back with a sudden movement of terror and a half-cry? Surely I could not be mistaken! That was a face close to the window, looking in; the dark face of a man; and, unless I was much mistaken, bearing a strong resemblance to that of Mr. Edwin Barley.
"What is it?" asked Mr. Chandos, coming forward. "Has anything alarmed you?"
"Oh, sir! I saw a face pressed close to the window-pane. A man's face."
Without the loss of a moment, Mr. Chandos threw up the window, and had his head out. All I felt good for was to sit down in a chair out of sight. He could see no one, as it appeared, and he shut the window again very quietly. Perhaps his thoughts only pointed to some one of the servants.