The guests from Hohenlinden had departed from Foreland Farms; the family had retired. Outside, under a sparkling galaxy of summer stars, tall trees stood unstirring; indoors nothing stirred except the family cat, darkly prowling on velvet-shod feet in eternal search of those viewless things which are manifest only to the feline race--sorcerers all, whether quadruped or human.

In various bedrooms upstairs lights went out, one after another, until only two windows remained illuminated, one in the west wing, one in the north.

For Dulcie, in her negligee and night robe, still sat by the open window, chin resting on palm, her haunted gaze remotely lost somewhere beyond the July stars.

And, in his room, Garry had arrived only as far as removing coat and waistcoat in the process of disrobing for the night. For his mind was still deeply preoccupied with Dulcie Soane and with the strange expression of her face at the piano--and with the profoundly altered visage of Murtagh Skeel.

And he was asking himself what could have happened between those two in such a few minutes there at the piano in the music-room. For it was evident to him that Skeel was labouring under poorly controlled emotion, was dazed by it, and was recovering self-possession only by a mighty effort.

And when Skeel had finally taken his leave and had gone away with the Gerhardts, he suddenly stopped on the porch, returned to the music-room, and, bending down, had kissed Dulcie's hand with a grace and reverence which made the salute more of a serious ceremony than the impulsive homage of a romantic poet's whim.

Considered by itself, the abrupt return and quaintly perfect salute might have been taken as a spontaneous effervescence of that delightful Celtic gallantry so easily stirred to ebullition by youth and beauty. And for that it was accepted by the others after Murtagh Skeel was gone; and everybody ventured to chaff Dulcie a little about her conquest--merely the gentle humour of gentlefolk--a harmless word or two, a smile in sympathy.

Garry alone saw in the girl's smile no genuine response to the light badinage, and he knew that her serenity was troubled, her careless composure forced.

Later, he contrived to say good-night to her alone, and gave her a chance to speak; but she only murmured her adieux and went slowly away up the stairs with Thessalie, not looking back.

Now, sitting there in his dressing-gown, briar pipe alight, he frowned and pondered over the matter in the light of what he already knew of Dulcie, of the dead mother who bore her, of the grotesquely impossible Soane, of this man, Murtagh Skeel.

What had he and Dulcie found in common to converse about so earnestly and so long there in the music-room? What had they talked about to drive the colour from Dulcie's cheeks and alter Skeel's countenance so that he had looked more like his own wraith than his living self?

That Dulcie's mother had known this man, had once, evidently, been in love with him more or less, doubtless was revealed in their conversation at the piano. Had Skeel enlightened Dulcie any further?

And on what subject? Soane? Her mother? Her origin--in case the child had admitted ignorance of it? Was Dulcie, now, in possession of new facts concerning herself? Were they agreeable facts? Were they depressing? Had she learned anything definite in regard to her birth?

Her parentage? Did she know, now, who was her real father? Was the obvious absurdity of Soane finally exploded? Had she learned what the drunken Soane meant by a.s.serting that her name was not Soane but Fane?

His pipe burned out and he laid it aside, but did not rise to resume his preparation for bed.

Then, somewhere from the unlighted depths of the house came the sound of the telephone bell--at that hour of night always a slightly ominous sound.

He got up and went down stairs, not troubling to switch on any light, for the l.u.s.tre of the starry night outside silvered every window and made it possible for him to see his way.

At the clamouring telephone, finally, he unhooked the receiver:

"h.e.l.lo?" he said. "Yes! Yes! Oh, is that _you_, Renoux? Where on earth are you?... At Northbrook?... Where?... At the Summit House? Well, why didn't you come here to us?... Oh!... No, it isn't very late. We retire early at Foreland.... Oh, yes, I'm dressed.... Certainly....

Yes, come over.... Yes!... _Yes_!... I'll wait for you in the library.... In an hour?... You bet. No, I'm not sleepy.... Sure thing!... Come on!"

He hung up the receiver, turned, and made his way through the dusk toward the library which was opposite the music-room across the big entrance hall.

Before he turned on any light he paused to look out at the splendour of the stars. The night had grown warmer; there was no haze, now, only an argentine clarity in which shadowy trees stood mysterious and motionless and the dim lawn stretched away to the distant avenue and wall, lost against their looming border foliage.

Once he thought he heard a slight sound somewhere in the house behind him, but presently remembered that the family cat held sway among the mice at such an hour.

A little later he turned from the window to light a lamp, and found himself facing a slim, white figure in the starry dusk.

"Dulcie!" he exclaimed under his breath.

"I want to talk to you."

"Why on earth are you wandering about at this hour?" he asked. "You made me jump, I can tell you."

"I was awake--not in bed yet. I heard the telephone. Then I went out into the west corridor and saw you going down stairs.... Is it all right for me to sit here in my night dress with you?"

He smiled:

"Well, considering----"

"Of course!" she said hastily, "only I didn't know whether outside your studio----"

"Oh, Dulcie, you're becoming self-conscious! Stop it, Sweetness. Don't spoil things. Here--tuck yourself into this big armchair!--curl up!

There you are. And here I am----" dropping into another wide, deep chair. "Lord! but you're a pretty thing, Dulcie, with your hair down and all glimmering with starlight! We'll try painting you that way some day--I wouldn't know how to go about it offhand, either. Maybe a screened arc-lamp in a dark part.i.tion, and a peep-hole--I don't know----"

He lay back in his chair, studying her, and she watched him in silence for a while. Presently she sighed, stirred, placed her feet on the floor as though preparing to rise. And he came out of his impersonal abstraction:

"What is it you want to say, Sweetness?"

"Another time," she murmured. "I don't----"

"You dear child, you came to me needing the intimacy of our comradeship--perhaps its sympathy. My mind was wandering--you are so lovely in the starlight. But you ought to know where my heart is."

"Is it open--a little?"

"Knock and see, Sweetness."

"Well, then, I came to ask you--Mr. Skeel is coming to-morrow--to see me--alone. Could it be contrived--without offending?"

"I suppose it could.... Yes, of course.... Only it will be conspicuous.

You see, Mr. Skeel is much sought after in certain circles--beginning to be pursued and----"

"He asked me."

"Dear, it's quite all right----"

"Let me tell you, please.... He _did_ know my mother."

"I supposed so."

"Yes. He was the man. I want you to know what he told me.... I always wish you to know everything that is in my--mind--always, for ever."

She leaned forward in her chair, her pretty, bare feet extended. One silken sleeve of her negligee had fallen to the shoulder, revealing the perfect symmetry of her arm. But he put from his mind the ever latent artistic delight in her, closed his painter's eye to her protean possibilities, and resolutely concentrated his mental forces upon what she was now saying:

"He turns out to be the same man my mother wrote to--and who wrote to her.... They were in love, then. He didn't say why he went away, except that my mother's family disliked him.... She lived at a house called Fane Court.... He spoke of my mother's father as Sir Barry Fane...."

"That doesn't surprise me, Sweetness."

"Did _you_ know?"