“It is better for him that he stays there,” Mrs. Weatherley said softly.  “Please come.”

At the further end of the apartment there was a bend to the left.  Mrs. Weatherley led the way around the corner into a small recess, out of sight of the remainder of the people.  Here she paused and, holding up her finger, looked around.  Her head was thrown back, the trouble still gleamed in her eyes.  She listened intently to the hum of voices, as though trying to distinguish those she knew.  Satisfied, apparently, that their disappearance had not occasioned any comment, she moved forward again, motioned Arnold to open a door, and led him down a long passage to the front of the house.  Here she opened the door of an apartment on the left-hand side of the hall, and almost pushed him in.  She closed the door quickly behind them.  Then she held up her finger.

“Listen!” she said.

They could hear nothing save the distant murmur of voices in the music-room.  The room which they had entered was in complete darkness, through which the ivory pallor of her arms and face, and the soft fire of her eyes, seemed to be the only things visible.  She was standing quite close to him.  He could hear her breathing, he could almost fancy that he heard her heart beat.  A strand of hair even touched his cheek as she moved.

“I do not wish to turn the light up for a moment,” she whispered.  “You do not mind?”

“I mind nothing,” Arnold answered, bewildered.  “Are you afraid of anything?  Is there anything I can do?”

A sense of excitement was stirring him.

“Just do as I ask, that is all,” she murmured.  “I want to look outside a moment.  Just do as I ask and keep quiet.”

She stole from him to the window and, moving the curtain a few inches, knelt down, peering out.  She remained there motionless for a full minute.  Then she rose to her feet and came back.  His eyes were becoming more accustomed to the gloom now and he could see the outline of her figure as she moved towards him.

“Take my place there,” she whispered.  “Look down the drive.  Tell me whether you can see any one watching the house?”

He went down on his knees at the place she indicated and peered through the parted curtain.  For a few seconds he could see nothing; then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he discerned two motionless figures standing on the left-hand side of the drive, partly concealed by a tall laurel bush.

“I believe,” he declared hoarsely, “that there are two men standing there.”

“Tell me, are they moving?” she demanded.

“They seem to be simply watching the house,” he replied.

She was silent.  He could hear her breath come and go.

“They still do not move?” she asked, after a few seconds.

He shook his head, and she turned away, listening to some footsteps in the hall.

“Remember,” she whispered, “I am standing where I can turn on the light in a moment.  If any one comes, you are here to see my South American curios.  This is my own sitting-room.  You understand?”