“Dear me,” he sneered, “how very tragic you are becoming!  That dressing-gown really makes you appear quite like a heroine of provincial melodrama.  I ought now to have a revolver and threaten you, and then this scene would be complete for the stage—­wouldn’t it?  But for goodness’ sake don’t remain here in the cold any longer, my dear little girl.  Run off to bed, and forget that to-night you’ve been walking in your sleep.”

“Not until I see that safe relocked and you give me the false key of yours.  If you will not, then you shall this very night have an opportunity of telling the truth to my father.  I am prepared to bear my shame and all its consequences——­”

The words froze upon her pale lips.  On the lawn outside the half-open glass door there was at that moment a light movement—­the tapping of a walking-stick!

“Hush!” cried Flockart.  “Remember what I can tell him—­if I choose!”

In an instant she saw the fragile figure of her father, in soft felt-hat and black coat, creeping almost noiselessly past the window.  He had been out for one of his nocturnal walks, for he sometimes went out alone when suffering from insomnia.  He had just returned.

The blind man went forward only a few paces farther; but, finding that he had proceeded too far, he returned and discovered the open door.  Near it stood the pair, not daring now to move lest the blind man’s quick ears should detect their footsteps.

“Gabrielle!  Gabrielle, my dear!” exclaimed the Baronet.

But though her heart beat quickly, the girl did not reply.  She knew, however, that the old man could almost read her innermost thoughts.  The ominous words of Flockart rang in her ears.  Yes, he could tell a terrible and awful truth which must be concealed at all hazards.

“I felt sure I heard Gabrielle’s voice.  How curious!” murmured the old man, as his feet fell noiselessly upon the thick Turkey carpet.  “Gabrielle, dear!” he called.  But his daughter stood there breathless and silent, not daring to move a muscle.  Plain it was that while passing across the lawn outside he heard her voice.  He had overheard her declaration that she was prepared to bear the consequences of her disgrace.

Across the room the blind man groped, his hand held before him, as was his habit.  “Strange!  Remarkably strange!” he remarked to himself quite aloud.  “I’m never mistaken in Gabrielle’s voice.  Gabrielle, dear, where are you?  Why don’t you speak?  It’s too late to-night to play practical jokes.”

Flockart knew that he had left the safe-door open, yet he dared not move across the room to close it.  The sightless man would detect the slightest movement in that dead silence of the night.  With great care he left the girl’s side, and a single stride brought him to the large writing-table, where he secured the document, together with the pencilled memoranda of its purport, both of which he slipped into his pocket unobserved.