vague forebodings of evil.  It is a wicked look that overspreads the man’s face—­a cruel, implacable look that seems to freeze her as she gazes at him spell-bound.  Slowly, even while she watches him, she sees him turn his glance from her to Sir Adrian in a meaning manner, as though to let her know that the vile thought that is working in his brain and is betraying itself on his face is intended for him, not her.  And yet, with this too, he gives her silently to understand that, if she shows any treachery toward him, he will not leave it unrewarded.

Cowed, frightened, trembling at what she knows not, Dora staggers backward, and, laying a hand upon the wall beside her, tries to regain her self-possession.  The others are all talking together, she is therefore unobserved.  She stands, still panting and pallid, trying to collect her thoughts.

Only one thing comes clearly to her, filling her with loathing of herself and an unnamed dread—­it is that, by her own double-dealing and falseness toward Florence, she has seemed to enter into a compact with this man to be a companion in whatever crime he may decide upon.  His very look seems to implicate her, to drag her down with him to his level.  She feels herself chained to him—­his partner in a vile conspiracy.  And what further adds to the horror of the situation is the knowledge that she knows herself to be blindly ignorant of whatever plans he may be forming.

After a few seconds she rouses herself, and wins back some degree of composure.  It is of course a mere weakness to believe herself in the power of Arthur Dynecourt, she tries to convince herself.  He is no more than any other ordinary acquaintance.  If indeed she has helped him a little in his efforts to secure the love of Florence, there was no great harm in that, though of course it served her own purpose also.

“How pale you are, Mrs. Talbot?” remarks Sir Adrian suddenly, wheeling round to look at her more closely.  “Has this damp old place really affected your nerves?  Come, let us go down again, and forget in the sunshine that bloody deeds were ever committed here or elsewhere.”

“I am nervous, I confess,” responds Dora, in a low tone.  “Yes, yes—­let us leave this terrible room forever.”

“So be it,” says Sir Adrian gayly.  “For my part, I feel no desire to ever re-enter it.”

“It is very high art, I suppose,” observes Ethel Villiers, glancing round the walls.  “Uncomfortable places always are.  It would be quite a treasure to Lady Betty Trefeld, who raves over the early Britons.  It seems rather thrown away upon us.  Captain Ringwood, you look as if you had been suddenly turned into stone.  Let me pass, please.”

“It was uncommonly friendly of Ringwood not to have let the door slam, and so imprisoned us for life,” says Sir Adrian, with a laugh.  “I am sure we owe him a debt of gratitude.”

“I hope you’ll all pay it,” laughs Ringwood.  “It will be a nice new experience for you to give a creditor something for once.  I never pay my own debts; but that doesn’t count.  I feel sure you are all going to give me something for my services as door-keeper.”