Three seven-branched silver candlesticks had now been lighted, and formed pools of soft radiance in the gathering dusk.

After wandering about restlessly for a while, Bubbles ensconced herself far away from the others, in the old carved wood confessional, which had seemed in Donnington’s eyes so incongruous and unsuitable an object to form part of the furnishings of a living room.

To Blanche Farrow, the confessional, notwithstanding the beauty of the carving, suggested an irreverent simile—­that of a telephone-box.  She told herself that only Bubbles would have chosen such an uncomfortable resting-place.

But when stepping up into what had once been the priest’s narrow seat, Bubbles called out that it was delightfully nice and quiet in there, as well as dark—­for there still hung over the aperture through which she had just passed a curtain of green silk brocade embroidered with pale passion flowers.

There followed a period of absolute silence and quietude in the room.  Then the door leading from the outside porch opened, and Varick came in.  “I hope I’m not intruding,” he exclaimed in his full, resonant voice; and the ladies, with the exception of Bubbles, who remained invisible, looked up and eagerly welcomed him.

During the last few days he had made a real conquest of Miss Burnaby, who, with the one startling exception of the emotion betrayed by her at the seance, secretly struck both him and Blanche Farrow as the most commonplace human being with whom either had ever come in contact.

“I’m quite warm,” he said, in answer to the old lady’s invitation to come up to the fire.  “I had to go down to the village Post Office to see why the London papers hadn’t arrived.  But I’ve got them all now.”

He came over to where she was sitting and handed her a picture paper.  Then he retreated, far from the fire, close to a table which was equi-distant from the confessional and the door giving access to the staircase hall.  Bringing forward a deep, comfortable chair out of the shadows, he sat down, and opening one of the newspapers he had brought in, began to read it with close attention.

On the table at his elbow, there now stood what looked to Helen’s eyes like a bouquet of light.  But this only made the soft darkness which filled the further side of the great room seem more intense to those sitting near the fireplace.

They were all pleasantly tired after the doings of the day; and soon Blanche’s quick ears caught a faint, regular sound issuing from the far-off confessional.  Bubbles, so much was clear, had fallen asleep.