he hall. It was Dutton, the butler, and in his hand
he held a telegram. He seemed astonished to see me there, but passed me
with a simple bow, and stopped before the door I had so unavailingly
assailed a few minutes before.

"A telegram, miss," he shouted, as no answer was made to his knock.
"Mr. Armstrong asked me to bring it to you. It is from the Bishop, and
calls for an immediate reply."

There was a stir within, but the door did not open. Meanwhile, I had
sealed and thrust forth the letter I had held concealed in my breast
pocket.

"Give her this, too," I signified, and pointed to the crack under the
door.

He took the letter, laid the telegram on it, and pushed them both in.
Then he stood up, and eyed the unresponsive panels with the set look of
a man who does not easily yield his purpose.

"I will wait for the answer!" he shouted through the keyhole, and,
falling back, he took up his stand against the opposite wall.

I could not keep him company there. Withdrawing into a big dormer
window, I waited with beating heart to see if her door would open.
Apparently not; yet as I still lingered I heard the lock turn, followed
by the sound of a measured but hurried step. Dashing from my retreat, I
reached the main hall in time to see Miss Murray disappear toward the
staircase. This was well, and I was about to follow, when, to my
astonishment, I perceived Dutton standing in the doorway she had just
left, staring down at the floor with a puzzled look.

"She didn't pick up the letters!" he cried in amazement. "She just
walked over them. What shall I do now? It's the strangest thing I ever
saw!"

"Take them to the little boudoir over the porch," I suggested. "Mr.
Sinclair is there, and if she is not on her way to join him now, she
certainly will be soon."

Without a word Dutton caught up the letters and made for the stairs.

Left to await the result, I found myself so worked upon that I wondered
how much longer I should be able to endure these shifts of feeling and
constantly recurring moments of extreme suspense. To escape the torture
of my own thoughts, or, possibly, to get some idea of how Dorothy was
sustaining an ordeal which was fast destroying my own self-possession, I
prepared to go downstairs. What was my astonishment, in passing the
little boudoir on the second floor, to find its door ajar and the place
empty. Either the interview between Sinclair and Gilbertine had been
very much curtailed, or it had