Lionel Varick’s face turned a curious, greyly pallid tint.  It was as if all the natural colour was drained out of it.

“Where’s Bubbles?” he asked, in a scarcely audible voice.

For a moment no one answered him, and then Blanche said quietly:  “Bubbles is over there, in the confessional, asleep.”

He turned and walked quickly over to the carved, box-like confessional, and drew aside the green-embroidered curtain.

Yes, the girl lay there asleep—­or was she only pretending?  Her breast rose and fell, her eyes were closed.

Varick took hold of her arm with no gentle gesture, and she awoke with a cry of surprise and pain.  “What is it?  Don’t do that!” she said in a hoarse and sleepy tone.

And then, on seeing who it was, she smiled wryly.  “Is it forbidden to get in here?” she asked, still speaking in a heavy, dull way.  “I didn’t know it was,”—­and stumblingly she stepped down out of the confessional.

Varick scowled at her, and made no answer to her question.  Together they walked over to where the other three were standing—­Miss Burnaby still gazing at her niece, with an annoyed, frightened expression on her face.

As Bubbles and Varick came up to her, Helen got up from the chair in which she had sunk back.  She held a handkerchief to her face, and was making a great effort to regain her self-control and composure.

“Please forgive me, Mr. Varick.  I oughtn’t to have told you what I thought I saw—­for I’m sure it was only a dream, a horrible, startling dream.  But—­but you made me tell you, didn’t you?”

She looked up into his pale, convulsed face with an anguished expression.  “I think I’ll go upstairs now, and rest a little before I dress for dinner,” and then she walked across the room, and out of the door, with a steady step.

Bubbles stretched out her arms with a weary gesture.  “What’s all this fuss about?” she asked.  “I feel absolutely done—­done—­done!  Not at all as if I’d had a good long sleep.  I wonder how long I was asleep?”

“You didn’t sleep very long,” said her aunt dryly—­“not half-an-hour in all.  I should advise you, Bubbles, to follow Miss Brabazon’s example—­go up and have a good rest, before getting ready for dinner.”

Bubbles turned away.  She walked very slowly, with dragging steps, to the door; and a moment later Miss Burnaby also left the room.

Varick walked over towards the fireplace.  He held out his hands to the flames—­he felt cold, shiveringly cold.

He turned, as he had so often done in the past, for comfort to the woman now standing silent by his side, and who knew at once so much and so little of his real life.

“I wonder what really happened?” he muttered.  “It was a most extraordinary thing!  I’ve seldom met anyone so little hysterical or fanciful as—­as is Miss Brabazon.”  And then:  “Why, Blanche,” he exclaimed, startled, “what’s the matter?”