“I admit, my friend,” she said, holding out her hand to Douglas, “that my visit is unusual, but I can assure you that I am not a ghost.  Try my fingers, they are very real.”

Douglas recovered himself and drew a long breath.

“I am very glad to see you,” he said, “but if I had had any idea that you really wished to see me I would have spared you the trouble of coming to such an outlandish place.”

“Oh, I can assure you that I have rather enjoyed it,” she answered him.  “My coachman believes that I am mad, and my maid is sure of it.  Won’t you introduce me to your friend—­your sister, perhaps?”

Douglas preserved his composure.

“This is my cousin, Cicely Strong,” he said, “the Countess de Reuss.  The Countess de Reuss was very kind to me, Cicely, when I was ill.  I think I told you about her.”

Cicely was timid and nervous, nor did she at all understand the situation.

The Countess nodded to her kindly.

“You have a very clever relation,” she said.  “We are all expecting great things from him.  Now let me tell you, Douglas, why I have come.  There are two men coming to see me to-morrow whom you positively must meet.  One is Mr. Anderson, who owns the great Provincial Syndicate of Newspapers, and pays enormous prices for letters from London, the other is an American.  I’ve asked them purposely for you, and you see I’ve taken some pains to make sure of your coming.”

“It is very good of you,” Douglas replied.  “I will come, of course, with pleasure.”

“At eight o’clock,” she said, gathering up her skirts into her hand.  “Now, good-by, young people.”

She nodded pleasantly and turned away.  Douglas took the lamp and hurried to the door.

“You will let me see you to your carriage,” he said.

“Cissy, I shall only be a moment.  Do you mind the darkness?”

She answered him blithely.  The Countess laid her delicate fingers upon his arm, and held up her skirts till he could see her shapely feet with diamond buckles carefully feeling for each stair.

“My friend,” she exclaimed, “what ill taste you have shown.  You are abominably lodged.”

“I am not a chooser,” he answered; “but at least here I can pay my way.”

She laughed at him.

“Bourgeois.”

“Maybe.  I believe my ancestors were shopkeepers.”

“And the little cousin?” she said, looking at him sideways.

“She is the dearest little girl in the world,” he answered, heartily.

“I am not sure that I approve of her, though,” the Countess said gaily, “not, at any rate, if it has been she who has kept you away from me all this time.”

There was a more personal note in her conversation, the touch of her fingers upon his arm was warm and firm.  Thinking of these things, Douglas did not hear the rustle of a skirt behind him as they stepped out upon the pavement.  The Countess saw it and kept him talking there lightly for a moment.  When at last she let him go, and he ran upstairs, he nearly dropped the lamp he was carrying in surprise.  For his little room was empty.  Cicely was gone.