If it had been his ghost, Sylvia could not have been more startled. She whirled about and stared, and saw him—standing in the semidarkness of the garden, close to the railing of the veranda. It had rained that day, and the roads were deep in mire, and he had ridden far. His clothing was splashed and his hair in disarray; as for his face—never had Sylvia seen such grief on a human countenance.
“Sylvia!” he whispered. “Sylvia!” She could only gaze at him, dumb. “Sylvia, give me one minute! I have come here to tell you——”
He stopped, his voice breaking with intensity of feeling. “Oh!” she gasped. “You ought not to be here!”
“I had to see you!” he exclaimed. “There was no other way——”
But he got no farther. There was a step behind Sylvia, and she turned, and at the same moment heard the terrible voice of her father—“What does this mean?”
She sprang to him with a quick cry. “Papa!” She caught his arm with her hands, trying to stop what she feared he might do. “No, Papa, no!” For one moment the Major stood staring at the apparition in the darkness.
She could feel him trembling with fury. “Sir, how dare you approach my daughter?”
“Papa, no!” exclaimed Sylvia, again.
“Sir, do you wish to make it necessary for me to shoot you?”
Then Frank answered, his voice low and vibrant with pain. “Major Castleman, I would be grateful to you.”