My knees gave way beneath me, and I sank like a flaccid heap in the corner, against one of the leaves of the small folding-door that divided the arched vestibule from the long entry, and which was secured to the floor by a bolt, while the other one was thrown back.  Crouched in the shadow, powerless to move or think, I heard, with inexpressible terror, the door of the study open, and the voice and step of Bainrothe in the hall, approaching me.

Had he heard me?  Would he come?  Was I betrayed?

I felt my hair rise on my head as these questions rang like a tocsin through my brain, and I think, at that moment, I had a foretaste of the chief agony of death.

They were answered by Bainrothe himself, as he paused midway between the study-door and my place of refuge; and again I breathed—­I lived.

“I was mistaken, ’Stasia, it is not he! the wind, probably; and that marble looks so cold—­so uninviting—­shall not explore it.  He has a key, you know, and can come when he likes; for my part, I shall go in to supper while the oysters are hot.  Do as you like, though.”

“Had we not better wait?  You know he is sure to come to-night, bad as the weather is, on account of that affair.  It was late when Wentworth notified him.”

This was the rejoinder made from within the study, in which I recognized the voice of Mrs. Raymond, clear and shrill.

“Well, have it as you please.  If you prefer courtesy to comfort, you shall be gratified; but what’s the use of ceremony with Gregory?  He will be here in twenty minutes, Mr. Bainrothe; but don’t wait.  I shall have time to sup with him before I go up-stairs, you know.  I believe I will stay where I am until he comes, and finish taking in the poor thing’s wedding-gown.  Well, any thing is better than removal to the belfry”—­and I thought I heard a sigh.

“A matter of mere temporary necessity, you know, only she might have frozen in the interval,” said Bainrothe, jauntily, as he walked up the hall to the door of the dining-room, which I heard him open and let fall against its sill again.  It closed with a spring, and in the next moment the study-door was also softly shut, and all was still.

My resolution was promptly taken.  The folding leaves of the inner door—­that which divided the marble-paved vestibule from the carpeted entry—­against one of which I had been, leaning, I well knew worked to and fro on pulleys which obeyed the drawing of a cord and tassel hanging at one side, and thus they could readily be closed with a touch by any one standing in the vestibule as they opened out into the hall on which side was the latch and bolt.  I recalled this quaint arrangement with a quickness born of emergency, as one that might serve me now, and speadily possessed myself of the tassel at the extremity of the controlling cord.  Thus armed, and praying inwardly for strength and courage, and wherewith to carry out my scheme successfully, I took my stand in one of the two niches (just large enough for the purpose) in the door-frame, preferring, of course, that next to the lock, prepared to darken the vestibule at the first approach of the expected guest (I was afraid to do it before, lest attention might be called to it from within the house), and make my escape by rushing past him ere he could recover himself as he entered in the gloom.