“What shall I give you?” asks Ethel coquettishly.

“I’ll tell you by and by,” he replies, with such an expressive look that for once the saucy girl has no answer ready, but, blushing crimson, hurries past him down the stone stairs, where she waits at the bottom for the others.

As Florence reaches the door she pauses and stoops to examine the lock.

“I wish,” she says to Sir Adrian, a strange subdued excitement in her tone, “you would remove this lock.  Do.”

“But why?” he asks, impressed in spite of himself, by her manner.

“I hardly know myself; it is a fancy—­an unaccountable one, perhaps—­but still a powerful one.  Do be guided by me, and have it removed.”

“What—­the fancy?” he asks, laughing.

“No—­the lock.  Humor me in this,” she pleads earnestly, far more earnestly than the occasion seems to warrant.  “Call it a silly presentiment, if you like, but I honestly think that lock will work you evil some day.  Therefore it is that I ask you to do away with it.”

“You ask me?” he queries.

“Yes, if only to please me—­for my sake.”

She has evidently forgotten her late distrust of him, for she speaks now in the old sweet tone, and with tears in her eyes.  Sir Adrian flushes warmly.

“For your sake,” he whispers.  “What is there I would not do, if thus requested?”

A bitter sneer contracts Arthur Dynecourt’s lips as he listens to the first part of this conversation and guesses at the latter half.  He notes correctly the kindling of their eyes, the quick breath that comes and goes like happy sighs from the breast of Florence.  He hears the whisper, sees the warm blush, and glances expressively at Dora.  Meeting her eyes he says his finger on his lips to caution her to silence, and then, when passing by her, whispers: 

“Meet me in half an hour in the lower gallery.”

Bowing her acquiescence in this arrangement, fearing indeed to refuse, Dora follows the others from the haunted chamber.

At the foot of the small stone staircase—­before they go through the first iron-bound door that leads to the corridor without—­they find Ethel Villiers awaiting them.  She had been looking round her in the dimly lighted stone passage, and has discovered another door fixed mysteriously in a corner, that had excited her curiosity.

“Where does this lead to, Sir Adrian?” she asks now, pointing to it.

“Oh, that is an old door connected with another passage that leads by a dark and wearying staircase to the servants’ corridor beneath!  I am afraid you won’t be able to open it, as it is rusty with age and disuse.  The servants would as soon think of coming up here as they would of making an appointment with the Evil One; so it has not been opened for years.”

“Perhaps I can manage it,” says Arthur Dynecourt, trying with all his might to force the ancient lock to yield to him.  At length his efforts are crowned with success; the door flies creakingly open, and a cloud of dust uprising covers them like a mist.