The Secret Picture.
Sheila Monkton spent a restless night; truth to tell, her nights were never very peaceful. Even when she snatched her fitful sleep, the sinister figures of Stent, Farloe, and all the others who had become part of that haunting tragedy, flitted through her dreams, and made her welcome the daylight.
And now she had still more perturbing food for thought. Why had Mrs Saxton, object of suspicion as she knew herself to be, ventured so near her? What did that surreptitious excursion portend?
And who was that strange female who had called, and who would leave neither name nor message and had fled precipitately at sight of Smeaton in the hall?
She made up her mind, when she wakened in the morning, to remain at home all day. It might turn out to be nothing, but she felt sure that this woman had some object in calling upon her. The air had been thick with mystery for many weeks; she was convinced there was still more in store, and it would be brought by this strange visitor.
Yet she waited in vain; the young woman dressed in the navy blue costume, as described by the old manservant, did not make a second call. And poor Sheila spent still another night as wakeful as the preceding one. She came down to breakfast languid and heavy-eyed.
She opened her letters listlessly, till she came to one larger than the rest, out of which dropped a photograph. At sight of it she exclaimed warmly to herself: “What a charming likeness. It is the image of dear Gladys. How sweet of her to send it to me!”
She threw away the envelopes, and took the photo to the window to examine it more closely. It was a picture of her greatest friend, a girl a year older than herself, the Lady Gladys Rainham, only daughter of the Earl of Marshlands.
Her father had been intimate with the Earl since boyhood, and the passing years had intensified their friendship, which had extended to their families. Until this great sorrow had fallen upon Sheila, hardly a day passed without the two girls getting a glimpse of each other.
The Rainhams were amongst the few friends who knew the true facts of Monkton’s disappearance. And, in almost morbid sensitiveness, Sheila had withdrawn a little from them. Even sympathy hurt her at such a time.