I ran up the stairs lightly, and opened the door as stealthily as a thief. The light was out. “Isabel!” I said in a low voice. No answer.
I closed the door as noiselessly as I had opened it, and returned to the drawing-room.
“She's as fast asleep as a baby, uncle,” I said. “So I followed your advice, and left her to sleep it out.”
“Poor little pet! We kept her at it too long last night. You must not do this sort of thing again, Clide,” observed Sir Simon. “It's a delicate flower that you've got there, and you must take care of it.”
I expressed my hearty concurrence in this opinion and advice.
Isabel's absence made a great blank in the evening; but as my three friends had not met for a considerable time, and I had not seen them for more than a year, we had a great deal to say to each other, and there was no lack of conversation. Mrs. de Winton remained with us till eleven, when she withdrew, leaving us to discuss punch and politics by ourselves. It was past midnight when we separated. I went into my dressing-room. The candles were lighted, but, contrary to his custom, Stanton, my man, was not there. I rang the bell; but while my hand was still on the rope, the sound of his voice reached me through the door—not the outer door, but the door leading into my wife's room. He was speaking in a loud, argumentative tone, and was stuttering violently, which he always did when excited. I flung open the door, and beheld him standing in the middle of the room with Susette, my wife's maid, and Mrs. de Winton, who was wrapped in a dressing-gown and her feet bare, as if she had been called suddenly out of bed, and had rushed in in terrified haste.
“Clide!”
“Monsieur!”
“Sir ...” exclaimed the three in one voice when they saw me.
“Good God! what is the matter? Isabel!”