Westerham was following his old stalking habit, which he had acquired when in pursuit of big game among the giant pines of the Rockies. Yet with all his care he almost blundered into his quarry. For, as he moved silently round a pillar, he became conscious that he was so near to Lady Kathleen that he could have stretched out his hand and touched her.
In an instant he drew back and stood still behind a massive column. He could see nothing, but he could hear the voices of the girl and her companion in low and earnest conversation.
At first it was the man who did most of the talking, and from what scraps of his words he could catch Westerham judged him to be speaking in French. He droned on for some minutes, and then his voice died away.
Lady Kathleen now asked several questions in quiet, low tones. The man answered sharply and incisively, and it seemed to Westerham that there was command in his voice.
For a while there was a complete silence, which at last was broken by long, choking sobs. Edging a little nearer round the pillar, Westerham saw Kathleen kneeling upon a prie-dieu as though in an abandonment of grief. She was crying as though her heart would break, her face buried in her hands.
The sombre man stood by like some tall shadow, silent and unmoving.
A quick and great desire to go to Kathleen's aid, to gather her into his arms and comfort her, took possession of Westerham. But great as his desire was, he forced it down, recognising that the moment had not come for him to intervene.
Presently the sombre man moved closer to Lady Kathleen's side, and, putting out a gloved hand, touched her lightly, and with the air of one offering silent sympathy, on the shoulder.
Westerham heard him murmuring what must have been words of comfort, and before long Kathleen lifted her face and resolutely wiped away her tears. Then she rose and went forward to the altar, on the steps of which she knelt and prayed.