Blake could hear Rosalie catch her breath at this.  It came to him, also, that he had intervened at the very climax of Mrs. Markham’s operation on Robert H. Norcross.  But he went on firmly: 

“Obey that.  Do as you were told.  But do something else.  So that you will remember, I am going to whisper it in your ear.”

Blake leaned over for a minute, and whispered.  Presently he raised himself a little, so that he bent over her face, and said in a low speaking voice: 

“Do all that.  I command you.  I am Walter, and you must obey me.  And remember especially—­when you have done it all, then wake—­wake and do not be alarmed.  Do you hear?”

“Yes.”

“Will you obey?”

“Yes.”

“You will not be frightened?”

“No.”

Rosalie touched his arm.  Blake, with one last look back, stepped outside and dropped the portieres.  Rosalie drew him into the hall, softly locked the door, beckoned him to follow to the head of the stairs.  And hard upon this movement, the piano downstairs began: 

Wild roamed an Indian maid, bright Alfaretta.

“Make no noise—­and hurry!” whispered Rosalie.  Down the stairs they went, and stationed themselves by the hall door of the drawing-room.  There, it was pitch dark.  Without risk of being seen, they could look along the dim reaches of Mrs. Markham’s parlors.  From a point above their heads, a little, shaded cabinet-lamp gave a fan of low light which shone full on the dark curtains of the alcove library.  They could make out, by his white hair and collar, the back of a man, and a shadowy figure at the piano.  “Wild roamed an Indian maid” was falling away to its dying chord.  Silence settled again; the back of the old man swayed.  Mrs. Markham spoke from the piano stool: 

“I feel your influence, Helen.  You are stronger every time, dear, because his love grows stronger.  Come, dear—­come.”

A pillar of light glowed against the cabinet curtains.  Norcross rose; Blake could catch a suggestion of his face and collar against the dark draperies.  There came the same exchange of love words, of pats, of caressing speeches, which he had heard from the closet; even now, better understood as this thing was, the sound of them drew his finger nails up into his palms.

Rosalie’s touch brought him back to his sense of observation.  Here, now, came the climax; here the moment upon which everything depended.  The low, sweet contralto voice was saying: 

“They tell me that the great danger is near.  They give me a message which I do not quite understand.  They say, ’Declare that dividend to-morrow!’ You cannot know what awful things will follow if you do not.”

Rosalie’s clutch tightened on Blake’s arm.  For the voice had ceased altogether.  A silent moment; then they saw the pillar of light become a crumpled blotch on the floor, heard a sudden shuffle of feet, heard Annette’s voice, loud, clear, distinct, crying: