“But Mrs. Croyle isn’t down yet,” said Miranda.

“Stella isn’t going, dear,” answered Millie Splay; and a cry of dismay burst from Joan.

“Not going!”

The consternation in the girl’s voice was so pronounced that every eye in that hall turned to her in astonishment.  There was consternation, too, most legible in her widely-opened eyes.  Her cheeks had lost their colour.  She stood for a fleeting moment before them all, an image of terror.  Then she caught at an excuse.

“Stella’s ill then—­since she’s not going.”

“It’s not as bad as all that, dear,” Lady Splay hastened to reassure her.  “She complained of a racking headache at dinner.  She has gone to bed.”

The blood flowed back into Joan’s cheeks.

“Oh, I see!” she observed slowly.  “That is why her maid came to the library for a book!”

But she was very silent throughout the quarter of an hour, which it took them to drive to Harrel.  There was somebody left behind at Rackham Park that night.  Joan had overlooked one possibility in contriving her plan, and that possibility, now developed into fact, threatened to ruin all.  One guest remained behind in the house, and that one Joan’s rival.

CHAPTER XXIV

JENNY PRASK IS INTERESTED

Rackham was a red Georgian mansion with great windows in flat rows, and lofty rooms made beautiful by the delicate tracery of the ceilings.  It has neither wings nor embellishments but stood squarely in its gardens, looking southwards to the Downs.  The dining-room was upon the east side, between that room and the hall was the library, of which the window faced the north.  Mrs. Croyle’s bedroom, however, was in the south-west corner and from its windows one could see the smoke of the train as it climbed from Midhurst to the Cocking tunnel, and the gap where the road runs through to Singleton.

“You won’t be going to bed yet, madam, I suppose,” said Jenny.

She had not troubled to bring upstairs into the room the book which she had picked out at random from the stand that was lying on the hall table.

“No, Jenny.  I will ring for you when I want you,” said Stella.

Stella was dispirited.  Her week was nearly at an end.  To-morrow would be the last day and she had gained nothing, it seemed, by all her care.  Harry was kind—­oh, ever so much kinder than in the old days when they had been together—­more considerate, more thoughtful.  But the skies of passion are stormily red, and so effulgent that one walks in gold.  Consideration, thoughtfulness—­what were these pale things worth against one spurt of fire?  Besides, there was the ball to-night.  He would dance with her, would seek the dim open spaces of the lawns, the dark shadows of the great elms, with her—­with Joan.

“I’ll ring for you, Jenny,” she repeated, as her maid stood doubtfully by the door.  “I am quite right.”