She is Mary, remember; I am Ernest I will return in a
moment."
He quitted the room. Mr. Rashleigh stared helplessly about him, in a
pitiable state of terror and bewilderment. The room was large, well,
even elegantly, furnished, with nothing at all remarkable about, its
elegance; such another as Mr. Rashleigh's own drawing-room at home. It
was lighted by a cluster of gas-jets, and the piano, the arm-chairs, the
sofas, the tables, the pictures, were all very handsome and very common,
indeed.
Ten minutes elapsed. The commonplace, everyday look of the mysterious
room did more toward reassuring the trembling prelate than all the
masked man's words.
The door opened, and the masked man stalked in again, this time with a
lady hanging on his arm.
The lady was small and slender, robed in flowing white silk; a rich
veil of rare lace falling over her from head to foot like a cloud; a
wreath of orange-blossoms on her fair head; jewels sparkling about
her--everything just as it should be, save that, the face was hidden. A
mask of white silk, giving her a corpse-like and ghastly look, covered
it from forehead to chin.
Pages:
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126