“I will wait the lady’s pleasure-I came by appointment,” returns the man.  And as the servant disappears up the hall, he takes a seat, uninvited, upon a large settee, in carved walnut.  “Something mysterious about this whole affair!” he muses, scanning along the spacious hall, into the conservatory of statuary and rare plants, seen opening away at the extreme end.  The high, vaulted roof; the bright, tesselated floor; the taste with which the frescoes decorating the walls are designed; the great winding stairs, so richly carpeted-all enhanced in beauty by the soft light reflected upon them from a massive chandelier of stained glass, inspire him with a feeling of awe.  The stillness, and the air of grandeur pervading each object that meets his eye, reminds him of the halls of those medi‘val castles he has read of in his youth.  The servant returns, and makes his bow.  “My leady,” he says, in a strong Lincolnshire brogue, “as weated ye an ’our or more.”

The visitor, evincing some nervousness, rises quickly to his feet, follows the servant up the hall, and is ushered into a parlor of regal dimensions, on the right.  His eye falls upon one solitary occupant, who rises from a lounge of oriental richness, and advances towards him with an air of familiarity their conditions seem not to warrant.  Having greeted the visitor, and bid him be seated (he takes his seat, shyly, beside the door), the lady resumes her seat in a magnificent chair.  For a moment the visitor scans over the great parlor, as if moved by the taste and elegance of everything that meets his eye.  The hand of art has indeed been lavishly laid on the decorations of this chamber, which presents a scene of luxury princes might revel in.  And though the soft wind of whispering silks seemed lending its aid to make complete the enjoyment of the occupant, it might be said, in the words of Crabbe: 

“But oh, what storm was in that mind!”

The person of the lady is in harmony with the splendor of the apartment.  Rather tall and graceful of figure, her complexion pale, yet soft and delicate, her features as fine and regular as ever sculptor chiselled, her manner gentle and womanly.  In her face, nevertheless, there is an expression of thoughtfulness, perhaps melancholy, to which her large, earnest black eyes, and finely-arched brows, fringed with dark lashes, lend a peculiar charm.  While over all there plays a shadow of languor, increased perhaps by the tinge of age, or a mind and heart overtaxed with cares.

“I received your note, which I hastened to answer.  Of course you received my answer.  I rejoice that you have persevered, and succeeded in finding the object I have so long sought.  Not hearing from you for so many weeks, I had begun to fear she had gone forever,” says the lady, in a soft, musical voice, raising her white, delicate hand to her cheek, which is suffused with blushes.

“I had myself almost given her over, for she disappeared from the Points, and no clue could be got of her,” returns the man, pausing for a moment, then resuming his story.  “A week ago yesterday she turned up again, and I got wind that she was in a place we call ’Black-beetle Hole’—­”