‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. . ’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. There was an eerie sense of brooding menace about an uninhabited establishment. ” “But why——” Sir John stopped short.
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