“How do you know?” asked Edith, a suspicion of the truth flashing upon her.  “Did Blue Beard lay a snare in which to catch Fatima?”

“He did,” Arthur answered, “but was nearly as certain then as now that she would not fall into it.  Miss Hastings, it gives me more pleasure than I can well express to find one female who is worthy to be trusted—­who has no curiosity.”

“But I have a heap of curiosity,” returned Edith, laughingly.  “I’m half crazy to know what that room is for and why you are so particular about it.”

“Then you deserve more credit than I have given you,” he replied, a dark shadow stealing over his handsome face.

Edith was about to ask him of the portrait in the drawing room, when he prevented her by making some playful allusion to the circumstances of their first acquaintance.

“I began to think you had forgotten me,” said Edith, “though I knew you could not well forget the theft unjustly charged to me.”

She hoped he would now speak of Nina, but he did not, and as she for the first time remembered Mr. Griswold, she said, after a moment’s pause,

“I came near forgetting my principal errand here.  I could have sent your keys, but I would rather deliver Mr. Griswold’s message myself.”

She expected Arthur to start, but she was not prepared for him to spring from his chair as suddenly as he did.

“Mr. Griswold!” he repeated.  “Where did you see him?  Has he been here?  What did he say?  Tell me, Edith—­Miss Hastings—­I beg your pardon—­tell me his errand.”

He stood close to her now, and his eyes did not leave her face for an instant while she repeated the particulars of her interview with the stranger.

“And this is all—­you’ve told me all that passed between you?” he asked, eagerly.

“Yes, all,” she answered, pitying him, he looked so frightened, so disturbed.

Consulting his watch, he continued, “There’s time, I see, if I am expeditious, I must take the next train east though I would so much rather stay and talk with you.  I shall see you again, Miss Hastings.  You’ll come often to Grassy Spring, won’t you?  I need the sight of a face like yours to keep me from going mad.”

He wrung her hand and stepped into the hall just as one of the black women he had brought from Florida appeared.

“Aunt Phillis,” he said, “I wish to speak with you,” and going with her to the extremity of the hall, they conversed together in low, earnest tones, as if talking of some great sorrow in which both were interested.

Once Edith heard Aunt Phillis say, “Blessed lamb, that I’ve done toted so many tunes in these old arms.  Go, Marser Arthur; never you mind old Phillis, she’ll get on somehow.  Mebby the young lady in thar kin show me the things and tell me the names of yer Yankee gimcracks.”

“I have no doubt she will,” returned Arthur, adding something in a whisper which Edith could not hear.