His bent figure looked huge, body and legs outlined by light, head and shoulders towering into shadow.  “He shall have a run for his money!” he said.  His eyes stared down sombrely at his niece.  “It’s more than he deserves!—­it’s more than you deserve, Chris. Sit down there and write to him; tell him to put himself entirely in my hands.”  He turned his back on her, and went into his bedroom.

Christian rose, and sat down at the writing-table.  A whisper startled her.  It came from Dominique, who was holding out a pair of boots.

“M’mselle Chris, what is this?—­to run about all night?” But Christian did not answer.

“M’mselle Chris, are you ill?” Then seeing her face, he slipped away again.

She finished her letter and went out to the carriage.  Mr. Treffry was seated under the hood.

“Shan’t want you,” he called out to the groom, “Get up, Dominique.”

Christian thrust her letter into his hand.  “Give him that,” she said, clinging to his arm with sudden terror.  “Oh!  Uncle! do take care!”

“Chris, if I do this for you—­” They looked wistfully at one another.  Then, shaking his head, Mr. Treffry gathered up the reins.

“Don’t fret, my dear, don’t fret!  Whoa, mare!”

The carriage with a jerk plunged forward into darkness, curved with a crunch of wheels, and vanished, swinging between the black treepillars at the entrance....

Christian stood, straining to catch the failing sound of the hoofs.

Down the passage came a flutter of white garments; soft limbs were twined about her, some ends of hair fell on her face.

“What is it, Chris?  Where have you been?  Where is Uncle Nic going?  Tell me!”

Christian tore herself away.  “I don’t know,” she cried, “I know nothing!”

Greta stroked her face.  “Poor Chris!” she murmured.  Her bare feet gleamed, her hair shone gold against her nightdress.  “Come to bed, poor Chris!”

Christian laughed.  “You little white moth!  Feel how hot I am!  You’ll burn your wings!”

Harz had lain down, fully dressed.  He was no longer angry, but felt that he would rather die than yield.  Presently he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

“M’sieu!”

It was the voice of Dominique, whose face, illumined by a match, wore an expression of ironical disgust.

“My master,” he said, “makes you his compliments; he says there is no time to waste.  You are to please come and drive with him!”

“Your master is very kind.  Tell him I’m in bed.”

“Ah, M’sieu,” said Dominique, grimacing, “I must not go back with such an answer.  If you would not come, I was to give you this.”

Harz broke the seal and read Christian’s letter.

“I will come,” he said.

A clock was striking as they went out through the gate.  From within the dark cave of the phaeton hood Mr. Treffry said gruffly:  “Come along, sir!”