“Are you afraid of the dark?”
“I have dared it before—for the sake of adventure.”
She still stood regarding him with her great eyes, so liquid, so mysterious, and perhaps a little sad. John Gore saw her press something to her bosom, and when she took her hand away he saw that it was a little silver crucifix hung by a chain about her neck. Her lips moved as though she were repeating some Latin prayer.
“Fides sanctissima, Maria beatissima, Pater-noster in cœlo.”
And then she swept forward toward the room, and John Gore followed her lest she should think him afraid.
The room was quite small, panelled with dark oak, and with a fire burning upon the open hearth at one end. A long table stood in the centre. About it were seated some half a score men, and at the head thereof, in a great leather-backed chair, Coleman the Jesuit, chaplain to the Duchess of York.
My Lord Gore exchanged glances with Hortense.
“It was you, then, most magical Dian, playing porter at the door. I wondered what had become of our friend here. Had I known—” And he laid a hand over his heart.
Hortense turned her head for an instant with an audacious flash of the eyes at John Gore.
“I will not betray him, but he wished to help a woman find a key that she had not dropped, gallant Sir John!” And the look she gave him would have made the greatest epicure push his plate aside and talk.