Leaning against the shaft holding one of the marbles, she regarded without seeing a chaste, youthful Canova, and beyond, painted on boards and set against satin, a Botticelli face, spiritual, sphinx-like.  Her brows were slightly drawn; she breathed deeply now, as if there were something in the place, its quiescence, the immobility of the lovely but ghost-like semblance of faces with which it was peopled that oppressed her.  She seemed to be thinking, or questioning herself, when suddenly her attention was attracted again by a sound of a different kind, or was it only fancy?  She looked toward a large Flemish tapestry covering one entire end of the room; behind the antique landscape in green threads she knew there was a disused door leading into armory hall.  Drawing back the heavy folds she stepped a little behind them; the door was locked and bolted; moreover, several heavy nails had fastened it, completely isolating her suite, as it were, from that spacious, general apartment.

Again the sound!  This time she placed it—­the creaking of the giant branch of ivy that ran up and around her own balcony.  The girl paused irresolutely, her hand on the heavy ancient hanging.  Leaning forward she waited; but the noise stopped; she heard nothing more, told herself it was nothing and was about to move out again when her gaze was suddenly held by something that passed like a shadow—­a man’s arm?—­on the other side of the nearest window, between the modern French curtains, not quite drawn together.

In that inconsiderable space between the silk fringes she was sure she had seen it, and anything suggestive of dolce far niente disappeared from the girl’s blue eyes.  The window opened wider, noiselessly but quickly; then a hand, strong, shapely, pushed the curtains aside.  Had the intruder first satisfied himself that the room was vacant?  He acted as one certain of his ground; now drawing the window draperies quickly together behind him as if seeking to escape observation from any one below, he stepped out into the room.

Something he saw seemed to surprise him; a low exclamation fell from his lips; his eyes, searching in the dim light his surroundings, swiftly passed from the rich furnishings, the artistic decorations, to the bright-colored robe, the little slippers before the fire.  Here they lingered, but only for a moment!  Did the intruder hear a sound, a quick breath?  His gaze swerved to the opposite end of the room where it saw a living presence.  For a moment they looked at each other; the man’s face turned very pale; his hand touched the back of a chair; he steadied himself.

“I thought—­to enter armory hall—­did not know your rooms were here,” he managed to say in a low tone, “at this corner of Strathorn House.”

She did not answer; so they stood, silently, absurdly.  Her face was like paper; her hair, in contrast, most bright; her eyes expressed only incomprehension.  The man had to speak first; he pulled himself together.  The bad fortune that had dogged him so long, that he had fought against so hard, now found its culmination:  it had cast him, of all places, hither, at her feet.