Lucy hastened back; on the threshold the
bride met and stopped her, with a white, startled face.
"Tell them to postpone the ceremony for an hour, Lucy. Come back here
then. For the next hour I wish to be left alone. Tell Mr. Walraven."
She shut the door in the amazed attendant's face. Lucy heard the key
turn. A second she stood petrified, then she hastened off to deliver her
message.
Mr. Walraven stood aghast. Lucy was plied with questions. Who was the
girl? What was she like? What had she said? Where had she come from?
Sir Roger was wildly alarmed at first, but Mr. Walraven reassured him.
The company waited, on the _qui vive_, for they knew not what. Eleven
o'clock came. Lucy went up to the bride's room; the door was still fast;
she knocked--there was no reply; she called--there was no answer. Then
Lucy screamed, and in a twinkling a crowd was around the door. They
shook it, they rapped, they called, all in vain. Dead silence reigned.
"Force the door!" exclaimed Carl Walraven, hoarsely.
Strong men forced it. There was a rush in, a recoil, a cry of
consternation, for the apartment was empty; the bird had flown.
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