ther words, a person had
passed through the door.

Still holding the faint wax-light in his hand Louis turned to the door of
Lady Constantine's chamber, where he observed first that, though it was
pushed together so as to appear fastened to cursory view, the door was
not really closed by about a quarter of an inch. He dropped his light
and extinguished it with his foot. Listening, he heard a voice
within,--Viviette's voice, in a subdued murmur, though speaking
earnestly.

Without any hesitation Louis then returned to Swithin's door, opened it,
and walked in. The starlight from without was sufficient, now that his
eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, to reveal that the room was
unoccupied, and that nothing therein had been disturbed.

With a heavy tread Louis came forth, walked loudly across the corridor,
knocked at Lady Constantine's door, and called 'Viviette!'

She heard him instantly, replying 'Yes' in startled tones. Immediately
afterwards she opened her door, and confronted him in her dressing-gown,
with a light in her hand. 'What is the matter, Louis?' she said.

'I am greatly alarmed. Our visitor is missing.'

'Missing? What, Mr. St. Cleeve?'

'Yes. I was sitting up to finish a cigar, when I thought I heard a noise
in this direction. On coming to his room I find he is not there.'

'Good Heaven! I wonder what has happened!' she exclaimed, in apparently
intense alarm.

'I wonder,' said Glanville grimly.

'Suppose he is a somnambulist! If so, he may have gone out and broken
his neck. I have never heard that he is one, but they say that sleeping
in strange places disturbs the minds of people who are given to that sort
of thing, and provokes them to it.'

'Unfortunately for your theory his bed has not been touched.'

'Oh, what then can it be?'

Her brother looked her full in the face. 'Viviette!' he said sternly.

She seemed puzzled. 'Well?' she replied, in simple tones.

'I heard voices in your room,' he continued.

'Voices?'

'A voice,--yours.'

'Yes, you may have done so. It was mine.'

'A listener is required for a speaker.'

'True, Louis.'

'Well, to whom were you speaking?'

'God.'

'Viviette! I am ashamed of you.'

'I was saying my prayers.'

'Prayers--to God! To St. Swithin, rather!'

'What do you mean, Louis?' she asked, flushing up warm, and drawing back
from him. 'It was a form of prayer I use, particularly when I am in
trouble. It was recommended