e had returned to her eyrie after quelling the racket in
the hall, and now she leaned a little forward so that I could see her
face.

"Who's there?" she asked quietly.

Her voice was low and clear as the reed of a flute, but all sounds had the
quality of music at that instant of release.

I was nonplussed for the moment. I ought to have taken up the key of high
romance. She deserved it. Instead of that I dropped to the awful
commonplaces of a man in evening dress and a light overcoat standing in
the rain talking to a stranger.

"I came up with Mr. Jervaise, Mr. Frank Jervaise," I explained. "He--he
wants to see you. Shall I tell him you're there?"

"All serene, I'm here," whispered the voice of Jervaise at my elbow, and
then he cleared his throat and spoke up at the window.

"Rather an upset down at the Hall, Miss Banks; about Brenda," he said.
"Might we come in a minute?"

"It's rather late, isn't it?" the vision returned--it wasn't only the ease
of the silence, she had a delicious voice--and added rather mischievously,
"It's raining, isn't it?"

"Like anything," Jervaise said, and ducked his head and hunched his
shoulders, as if he had suddenly remembered the possible susceptibility of
his exposed face.

"Is it so very important?" the soft, clear voice asked, still, I thought,
with a faint undercurrent of raillery.

"Really, Miss Banks, it is," Jervaise implored, risking his delicate face
again.

She hesitated a moment and then said, "Very well," and disappeared, taking
this time the dissipated candle with her. I heard her address a minatory
remark within the room to "Racket"--most excellently described, I thought;
though I discovered later that I had, in imagination, misspelt him, since
he owed his name to the fact that his mother had sought her delivery on
the bed of a stored tennis-net.

Jervaise and I hurried back to the front door as if we were afraid that
Miss Banks might get there first; but she kept us waiting for something
like ten minutes before she came downstairs. The silence of that interval
was only broken by such nervous staccato comments as "Long time!"
"Dressing, presumably," and occasional throaty sounds of impatience from
Jervaise that are beyond the representative scope of typography. I have
heard much the same noises proceed from the throat of an unhopeful pig
engaged in some minor investigation.

The rain was falling less heavily, and towards the west a pale blur of
light was slo