"My! I'd have stuck a pin into him; that would have made him jump," cried the girl with her strange laugh.
At this juncture the door opened and Mrs. Brooke came in. She was plainly dressed in black, and was closely veiled. Since Margery's arrival she rarely ventured out of doors till dusk, and then only when she wanted to do a little shopping such as the girl could not do for her. Any one who had not seen her since that April evening when M. Karovsky's ill-omened shadow first darkened the terrace at Beechley Towers, might have been excused for failing to recognise her again. It was not merely that she looked older by more years than the months which had elapsed since that day--anguish, anxiety, and the dread which never ceased to haunt her of what the next hour might bring forth, had marked their cruel lines on her features in a way that Time's gentle if inexorable graver never does when left to labour alone. The clear dancing light had died out of her eyes long ago; they looked larger and shone with a deeper and more intense lustre than in the days gone by; but a sudden knock at the door, an unusual footfall on the stairs, or the voices of strange men talking in the court below, would fill them on a sudden with a sort of startled terror, just as the eyes of a deer may fill when first it hears the baying of the far-away hounds.
She took off her bonnet with an air of weariness and sat down. "Has not Gerald returned yet?" she said to her aunt "What can have become of him?"
"The evening is so fine that he has probably gone for a longer walk than ordinary."
"It makes me wretched when he stays out longer than usual. And yet, poor fellow! what a life is his. To be shut up in one miserable room from morning till night; never to venture out till after dark, and then only with the haunting dread, that he may be recognised and arrested at any moment! How will it all end?" She sighed and went into the other room. Presently she returned, and a few moments later a knock at the door made every one start. Margery hastened to open it. Outside stood Picot carrying a bunch of flowers. "Bon soir, madame," he said, addressing himself to Clara with a low bow, and then favouring Miss Primby with another.
"Bon soir, Monsieur Picot. Entrez, s'il vous plait."
"Merci, madame," lie answered as he advanced into the room. "I have here a petit bouquet--a few flowers--which Henri has sent for madame, if she will have the bonté to accept them."
"I shall be charmed to do so," answered Clara as she took the flowers. "How fresh and sweet they smell! I am much obliged to Henri, and to you also, monsieur."--The mountebank made another low sweeping bow.--"I hope that Henri is quite well?"
"Parfaitement bien, madame."
"The first time he has a holiday, he must come and take tea with me; I will not forget to have a nice cake for the occasion."