“Well,” said Mrs. Holt, “this is an afternoon of surprises.  The Vicomte has gone off, too, without even waiting to say good-by.”

“The Vicomte!” exclaimed Honora.

“Didn’t you see him, either, before he left?” inquired Mrs. Holt; “I thought perhaps you might be able to give me some further explanation of it.”

“I?” exclaimed Honora.  She felt ready to sink through the floor, and Mrs. Holt’s delft-blue eyes haunted her afterwards like a nightmare.

“Didn’t you see him, my dear?  Didn’t he tell you anything?”

“He—­he didn’t say he was going away.”

“Did he seem disturbed about anything?” Mrs. Holt insisted.

“Now I think of it, he did seem a little disturbed.”

“To save my life,” said Mrs. Holt, “I can’t understand it.  He left a note for me saying that he had received a telegram, and that he had to go at once.  I was at a meeting of my charity board.  It seems a very strange proceeding for such an agreeable and polite man as the Vicomte, although he had his drawbacks, as all Continentals have.  And at times I thought he was grave and moody,—­didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, he was moody,” Honora agreed eagerly.

“You noticed it, too,” said Mrs. Holt.  “But he was a charming man, and so interested in America and in the work we are doing.  But I can’t understand about the telegram.  I had Carroll inquire of every servant in the house, and there is no knowledge of a telegram having come up from the village this afternoon.”

“Perhaps the Vicomte might have met the messenger in the grounds,” hazarded Honora.

At this point their attention was distracted by a noise that bore a striking resemblance to a suppressed laugh.  The footman on the step-ladder began to rattle the skylight vigorously.

“What on earth is the matter with you, Woods?” said Mrs. Holt.

“It must have been some dust off the skylight, Madam, that got into my throat,” he stammered, the colour of a geranium.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Holt, “there is no dust on the skylight.”

“It may be I swallowed the wrong way, looking up like, as I was, Madam,” he ventured, rubbing the frame and looking at his finger to prove his former theory.

“You are very stupid not to be able to close it,” she declared; “in a few minutes the place will be flooded.  Tell Carroll to come and do it.”

Honora suffered herself to be led limply through the library and up the stairs into Mrs. Holt’s own boudoir, where a maid was closing the windows against the first great drops of the storm, which the wind was pelting against them.  She drew the shades deftly, lighted the gas, and retired.  Honora sank down in one of the upholstered light blue satin chairs and gazed at the shining brass of the coal grate set in the marble mantel, above which hung an engraving of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ cherubs.  She had an instinct that the climax of the drama was at hand.