ollow
in a moment--after I see that the men have all they want in the
smoking-room."

In the depths of the most independent woman's soul is a lingering taint
of servility to the lordly male, and in Isabel it warmed into subtle
life under the flattering response of this illustrious specimen. She
fairly sailed towards the library, wondering if any of the famous
old-time California belles, Concha Argueello, Chonita Iturbe y Moncada,
with their caballeros flinging gold and silver at their feet, Nina
Randolph and Chonita Hathaway and Helena Belmont, with their pugnacious
"courts," had ever felt as exultant as she. That last moment, as she
stepped lightly over the threshold of the library, was a sort of climax
to the intoxication of youth.

And then she stopped short, stifling a cry of terror. The library,
except for the wandering moonshine, was unlit, but a ray fell directly
across a shadowy figure in the depths of a chair, half-way down the
room. It was a relaxed figure, the head fallen on the chest; the arms
were hanging limply over the sides of the chair, the hands ghastly in
the moonlight. At the rustle of skirts the figure slowly raised its
head, and the eyes of a man, haunted rather than haunting, looked out of
a drawn and livid face. But the movement was not followed by speech, and
Isabel stood, stiff with horror, convinced that she was in the presence
of the Capheaton ghost. Of course, like all old manor-houses, it had
one, and she was too imaginative not to accept with her nerves if not
with her intelligence this ugly proof of a restless domain beyond the
grave. But her petrifaction was mercifully brief. There was a quick step
behind her, and then an exclamation of horror as Gwynne shot past and
caught the lugubrious visitant by the shoulder.

"Good God, Zeal!" he cried, and his voice shook. "What is it, old man?
You look--you look--"

The man in the chair rose slowly and drew a long breath, which seemed to
infuse him with life again.

"I probably look much as I feel," he said, grimly. "I'm about to go on a
journey, and if you can give me a few minutes--"

He paused and looked with cold politeness at Isabel. She waited for no
further formalities, but shaken with the sure foreboding of calamity,
turned and fled the room.

XIV

That night had also been one of triumph for Elton Gwynne. He had dined
at the castle, and--his Julia having flitted to another
country-house--spent the greater part of the ev