“Horrible!” cried Mrs. Lecount, interrupting the ghostly narrative by a shrill little scream and making for the door, to Mrs. Wragge’s unutterable astonishment, without the least ceremony.  “You freeze the very marrow of my bones.  Good-morning!” She coolly tossed the Oriental Cashmere Robe into Mrs. Wragge’s expansive lap and left the room in an instant.

As she swiftly descended the stairs, she heard the door of the bedroom open.

“Where are your manners?” cried a voice from above, hailing her feebly over the banisters.  “What do you mean by pitching my gown at me in that way?  You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” pursued Mrs. Wragge, turning from a lamb to a lioness, as she gradually realized the indignity offered to the Cashmere Robe.  “You nasty foreigner, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

Pursued by this valedictory address, Mrs. Lecount reached the house door, and opened it without interruption.  She glided rapidly along the garden path, passed through the gate, and finding herself safe on the Parade, stopped, and looked toward the sea.

The first object which her eyes encountered was the figure of Mr. Bygrave standing motionless on the beach—­a petrified bather, with his towels in his hand!  One glance at him was enough to show that he had seen the housekeeper passing out through his garden gate.

Rightly conjecturing that Mr. Bygrave’s first impulse would lead him to make instant inquiries in his own house, Mrs. Lecount pursued her way back to Sea View as composedly as if nothing had happened.  When she entered the parlor where her solitary breakfast was waiting for her, she was surprised to see a letter lying on the table.  She approached to take it up with an expression of impatience, thinking it might be some tradesman’s bill which she had forgotten.

It was the forged letter from Zurich.

CHAPTER XI.

THE postmark and the handwriting on the address (admirably imitated from the original) warned Mrs. Lecount of the contents of the letter before she opened it.

After waiting a moment to compose herself, she read the announcement of her brother’s relapse.

There was nothing in the handwriting, there was no expression in any part of the letter which could suggest to her mind the faintest suspicion of foul play.  Not the shadow of a doubt occurred to her that the summons to her brother’s bedside was genuine.  The hand that held the letter dropped heavily into her lap; she became pale, and old, and haggard in a moment.  Thoughts, far removed from her present aims and interests; remembrances that carried her back to other lands than England, to other times than the time of her life in service, prolonged their inner shadows to the surface, and showed the traces of their mysterious passage darkly on her face.  The minutes followed each other, and still the servant below stairs waited vainly for the parlor bell.  The minutes followed each other, and still she sat, tearless and quiet, dead to the present and the future, living in the past.