She dared not look up, and bent down to examine the music, so absorbed in her own emotions of chagrin and astonishment, that she heard not one word of what Miss Harding was saying.  She felt well assured that if Mr. Murray were cognizant of her visit to the “Egyptian museum,” he intended her to know it, and she knew that his countenance would solve her painful doubt.

Gathering up her courage, she raised her eyes quickly in the direction of the sofa, where he had thrown himself, and met just what she most dreaded, his keen gaze riveted on her face.  Evidently he had been waiting for this eager, startling, questioning glance; for instantly he smiled, inclined his head slightly, and arched his eyebrows, as if much amused.  Never before had she seen his face so bright and happy, so free from bitterness.  If he had said, “Yes, I saw you:  are you not thoroughly discomfited, and ashamed of your idle curiosity?  What interest can you possibly have in carefully studying the outside of my letters?  How do you propose to mend matters?”—­he could not have more fully conveyed his meaning.  Edna’s face crimsoned, and she put up her hand to shield it; but Mr. Murray turned toward the window, and coolly discussed the merits of a popular race-horse, upon which Clinton Allston lavished extravagant praise.

Estelle leaned against the window, listening to the controversy, and after a time, when the subject seemed very effectually settled by an oath from the master of the house, Edna availed herself of the lull in the conversation to deliver the letter.

“Miss Harding, I was requested to hand you this.”

Estelle broke the seal, glanced rapidly over the letter and exclaimed: 

“Is it possible?  Can she be here?  Who gave you this letter?”

“Mrs. Powell, Mr. Hammond’s niece.”

“Agnes Powell?”

“Yes.  Agnes Powell.”

During the next three minutes one might have distinctly heard a pin fall, for the ticking of two watches was very audible.

Estelle glanced first at her cousin, then at her aunt, then back at her cousin.  Mrs. Murray involuntarily laid her hand on her son’s knee, and watched his face with an expression of breathless anxiety; and Edna saw that, though his lips blanched, not a muscle moved, not a nerve twitched; and only the deadly hate, that appeared to leap into his large shadowy eyes, told that the name stirred some bitter memory.

The silence was growing intolerable when Mr. Murray turned his gaze full on Estelle, and said in his usual sarcastic tone: 

“Have you seen a ghost?  Your letter must contain tidings of Victor’s untimely demise; for, if there is such a thing as retribution, such a personage as Nemesis, I swear that poor devil of a Count has crept into her garments and come to haunt you.  Did he cut his white womanish throat with a penknife, or smother himself with charcoal fumes, or light a poisoned candle and let his poor homoeopathic