An incident, however, occurred, which disturbed these amicable relations in an unexpected way.  It becomes necessary here to mention that Mademoiselle de Barras’s sleeping apartment opened from a long corridor.  It was en suite with two dressing rooms, each opening also upon the corridor, but wholly unused and unfurnished.  Some five or six other apartments also opened at either side, upon the same passage.  These little local details being premised, it so happened that one day Marston, who had gone out with the intention of angling in the trout-stream which flowed through his park, though at a considerable distance from the house, having unexpectedly returned to procure some tackle which he had forgotten, was walking briskly through the corridor in question to his own apartment, when, to his surprise, the door of one of the deserted dressing-rooms, of which we have spoken, was cautiously pushed open, and Sir Wynston Berkley issued from it.  Marston was almost beside him as he did so, and Sir Wynston made a motion as if about instinctively to draw back again, and at the same time the keen ear of his host distinctly caught the sound of rustling silks and a tiptoe tread hastily withdrawing from the deserted chamber.  Sir Wynston looked nearly as much confused as a man of the world can look.  Marston stopped short, and scanned his visitor for a moment with a very peculiar expression.

“You have caught me peeping, Dick.  I am an inveterate explorer,” said the baronet, with an effectual effort to shake off his embarrassment.  “An open door in a fine old house is a temptation which—­”

“That door is usually closed, and ought to be kept so,” interrupted Marston, drily; “there is nothing whatever to be seen in the room but dust and cobwebs.”

“Pardon me,” said Sir Wynston, more easily, “you forget the view from the window.”

“Aye, the view, to be sure; there is a good view from it,” said Marston, with as much of his usual manner as he could resume so soon; and, at the same time, carelessly opening the door again, he walked in, accompanied by Sir Wynston, and both stood at the window together, looking out in silence upon a prospect which neither of them saw.

“Yes, I do think it is a good view,” said Marston; and as he turned carelessly away, he darted a swift glance round the chamber.  The door opening toward the French lady’s apartment was closed, but not actually shut.  This was enough; and as they left the room, Marston repeated his invitation to his guest to accompany him; but in a tone which showed that he scarcely followed the meaning of what he himself was saying.

He walked undecidedly toward his own room, then turned and went down stairs.  In the hall he met his pretty child.

“Ha!  Rhoda,” said he, “you have not been out today?”

“No, papa; but it is so very fine, I think I shall go now.”

“Yes; go, and mademoiselle can accompany you.  Do you hear, Rhoda, mademoiselle goes with you, and you had better go at once.”