St. George had no great faith in him or in
what he might know, but the old man puzzled him, and mystification
is the smell of a pleasant powder.
The palace was very still. Presumably, Mrs. Hastings and Mr.
Frothingham were already at chess in the drawing-room awaiting
dinner. St. George heard a snatch of distant laughter, in quick
little lilts like a song, and it occurred to him that its echo there
was as if one were to pin a ruffle of lace to the grim stones. Some
one answered the laugh, and he heard the murmurous touching of soft
skirts entering the corridor as he dived down the ancient dark of
one of the musty passages. There the silence was resumed. In the
palace it was as though the stillness were some living sleeper,
waking with protests, thankful for the death of any echo.
No one was in the gallery. St. George, stepping softly, followed as
near as he dared to that hurrying figure, flitting down the dark. A
still narrower hallway connected the main portion of the palace with
a shoulder of the south wing, and into this the old man turned and
skirted familiarly the narrow sunken pool that ran the length of
the floor, drawing the light to its glassy surface and revealing the
shadows sent clustering to the indistinguishable roof.
Pages:
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374