III

At nine o’clock that evening, when a reprieve came, Hodder went out.  Anxiety on the score of Kate Marcy, as well as a desire to see Mr. Bentley and tell him of the conversation with the bishop, directed his steps toward Dalton Street.  And Hodder had, indeed, an intention of confiding to his friend, as one eminently entitled to it, the news of his engagement to Alison Parr.

Nothing, however, had been heard of Kate.  She was not in Dalton Street, Mr. Bentley feared.  The search of Gratz, the cabinet-maker, had been fruitless.  And Sally Grover had even gone to see the woman in the hospital, whom Kate had befriended, in the hope of getting a possible clew.  They sat close together before the fire in Mr. Bentley’s comfortable library, debating upon the possibility of other methods of procedure, when a carriage was heard rattling over the pitted asphalt without.  As it pulled up at the curb, a silence fell between them.  The door-bell rang.

Holder found himself sitting erect, rigidly attentive, listening to the muffled sound of a woman’s voice in the entry.  A few moments later came a knock at the library door, and Sam entered.  The old darky was plainly frightened.

“It’s Miss Kate, Marse Ho’ace, who you bin tryin’ to fin’,” he stammered.

Holder sprang to his feet and made his way rapidly around the table, where he stood confronting the woman in the doorway.  There she was, perceptibly swaying, as though the floor under her were rocked by an earthquake.  Her handsome face was white as chalk, her pupils widened in terror.  It was curious, at such an instant, that he should have taken in her costume,—­yet it was part of the mystery.  She wore a new, close-fitting, patently expensive suit of dark blue cloth and a small hat, which were literally transforming in their effect, demanding a palpable initial effort of identification.

He seized her by the arm.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Oh, my God!” she cried.  “He—­he’s out there—­in the carriage.”

She leaned heavily against the doorpost, shivering . . . .  Holder saw Sally Grover coming down the stairs.

“Take her,” he said, and went out of the front door, which Sam had left open.  Mr. Bentley was behind him.

The driver had descended from the box and was peering into the darkness of the vehicle when he heard them, and turned.  At sight of the tall clergyman, an expression of relief came into his face.

“I don’t like the looks of this, sir,” he said.  “I thought he was pretty bad when I went to fetch him—­”

Holder pushed past him and looked into the carriage.  Leaning back, motionless, in the corner of the seat was the figure of a man.  For a terrible moment of premonition, of enlightenment, the rector gazed at it.

“They sent for me from a family hotel in Ayers Street,” the driver was explaining.  Mr. Bentley’s voice interrupted him.