ll him if I got a
'gliff' in the night from the apparition of 'Silkie'--so he informed me
the lady was called locally. 'You've got your retriever with you,' he
said, 'so no doubt you will feel protected.'

'Brenda,' I replied, 'is Scotch by birth, so possibly she may be
superstitious. The event will determine. So long,' I said, as Harry went
off to the room of his late bachelor great-uncle.

Though very sleepy after a long motor ride I could not 'turn in' till I
had explored my bedroom, which was indeed a fascinating and enchanting
chamber. It seemed to be a coign plucked out of an old French chateau,
and inset here like a rare plant in an old stone wall. The panelling was
of Italian intarsia work inlaid with a renaissance design portraying
the tale of Cupid and Psyche; on the final panel Jupiter was handing the
cup of ambrosia to Psyche with the words, '_Sume, Psyche, et immortalis
esto, nec unquam digridietur a tuo nexu Cupido, sed istae vobis erunt
perpetuae nuptiae_'; the floor was formed of parquetry, and the rugs
above were of fine Persian workmanship. The curtains of the window were
of purple silk, embroidered, I imagined, by the fair Frenchwoman
herself, and the great four-poster bed was of fine walnut with deep
mouldings, and adorned with the fleur-de-lys of France. The whole room
seemed to be redolent of the grace of a charming _grande dame_ of old
France. I made up the fire with fresh pine logs upon the tiled hearth,
settled Brenda upon a rug by the side of it, undressed and went to bed,
enchanted by my surroundings, and very much inclined to envy my friend
his good fortune.

I fell asleep at once, for the bed was luxuriously comfortable, and I
was extraordinarily sleepy.

How long I slept I did not know, but when I awoke I had an immediate and
most lively intimation that some one was in the room. I drew myself
noiselessly upward, and at once my eyes rested upon a dainty figure
sitting in the chair by the dying fire, evidently engaged upon some
absorbing occupation. It was a woman clad in a sprigged silk gown, the
image of my lady of the dining-room portrait. What was she doing?
Seemingly pounding some substance in a small mortar. As I gazed
astounded a slight knock sounded on the door. My Lady seemed
extraordinarily perturbed; she started violently, seemed to shake
something white from the mortar as she gathered it hastily to her, moved
swiftly with the slightest rustle as of a scurrying mouse and vanish