Yet all the same she had made in secret a very diligent pursuit of this ghost, settling in the end to a certain pique with him that he would not show himself to so ardent a daughter of the house.  She had sat up waiting for him; she had lingered in the corridor outside, and on the stairs, expecting him.  By the help of a favourite carpenter she had made researches into roofs, water-pipes, panelling, and old cupboards, in the hope of finding a practical clue to him.  In vain.

Yet here were the steps—­regular, soft, unmistakable.  The colour rushed back into her cheeks!  Her eager healthy youth forgot its woes, flung off its weariness, and panted for an adventure, a discovery.  Springing up, she threw her fur wrap round her again, and gently opened the door, listening.

For a minute, nothing—­then a few vague sounds as of something living and moving down below—­surely in the library?  Then the steps again.  Impossible that it should be any one breaking in.  No burglar would walk so leisurely.  She closed her door behind her, and, gathering her white satin skirts about her, she descended the staircase.

The corridor below was in radiant moonlight, chequered by the few pieces of old furniture it contained, and the black and white of the old portrait prints hanging on the walls.  At first her seeking, excited eyes could make out nothing.  Then in a flash they perceived the figure of Wharton at the further end near the garden door, leaning against one of the windows.  He was apparently looking out at the moonlit house, and she caught the faint odour of a cigarette.

Her first instinct was to turn and fly.  But Wharton had seen her.  As he looked about him at the sound of her approach, the moon, which was just rounding the corner of the house, struck on her full, amid the shadows of the staircase, and she heard his exclamation.

Dignity—­a natural pride—­made her pause.  She came forward slowly—­he eagerly.

“I heard footsteps,” she said, with a coldness under which he plainly saw her embarrassment.  “I could not suppose that anybody was still up, so I came down to see.”

He was silent a moment, scanning her with laughing eyes.  Then he shook his head.  “Confess you took me for the ghost?” he said.

She hesitated; then must laugh too.  She herself had told him the stories, so that his guess was natural.

“Perhaps I did,” she said.  “One more disappointment!  Good-night.”

He looked after her a quick undecided moment as she made a step in front of him, then at the half-burnt cigarette he held in his hand, threw the end away with a hasty gesture, overtook her and walked beside her along the corridor.

“I heard you and your mother come in,” he said, as though explaining himself.  “Then I waited till I thought you must both be asleep, and came down here to look at that wonderful effect on the old house.”  He pointed to the silver palace outside.  “I have a trick of being sleepless—­a trick, too, of wandering at night.  My own people know it, and bear with me, but I am abashed that you should have found me out.  Just tell me—­in one word—­how the ball went?”