A feeling, or the memory of a feeling, surged in her heart, so cold, and even, and restricted. Like some quick-gliding spirit she sought the staircase and descended, finding Everard arranging a large batch of papers on the table in the hall. He looked up at her approach, and seeing the slight alteration in her features and expression, said to himself, “It’s Wednesday,” and went on with his work. But the earnestness of her voice attracted him. “Everard!” There was more in it than her usual simple, even tone. He looked up again. “Everard! Where is Rosalie? Where have you put her?” “Rosalie? I have not seen. Is she not upstairs?” She shook her head. “Is she in there? You have not put her in there?” and pointed to the right-hand door. He shook his head impatiently. “She is nowhere of my putting or knowing. She should be upstairs yet. Eight o’clock is her hour for getting up.” “She is not there.” “Not there?” He put the papers he held in his hand down, and looked at her. “No. And nowhere else upon the corridor.” “Have you searched well?” “Yes. I did not like to wake the others. Do you think she can possibly have got away?” “Impossible! The doors are barred—and double locked—and spring-locked.” “I know. But where is she.” “There must be a search instituted.” “Thank God the Master is away.” “He came home last night at midnight.” His voice was grim as his information was short. “Come home! Come home!” repeated Mariana. “What shall I do?” “You had best go and tell him.” “Is he up?” “Yes. An hour ago.” “I can’t go. Do this thing for me, Everard. I never asked you anything before.” He looked at her with a face half serious, half cold, then turned in the direction of the west wing. Mariana sat down on one of the many chairs—a solitary figure in that big empty hall, with clasped hands and shrinking form, fearing vaguely. Everard knocked at Mr. Barringcourt’s door, and obeyed the summons to go in. Before Everard could speak the Master looked up, and said, with a pleasantness not always customary in him: “Good morning, Everard! When Rosalie Paleaf has had breakfast, I want you to see her. Don’t forget to tell Mariana. What is it?” “She has disappeared in the night!” “Who?” and the dark brows contracted slightly as he looked across at the speaker. “Rosalie Paleaf.” “Disappeared in the night? Tell fairy stories to those that believe them.” “She is not in her bedroom, nor the corridor to which she was restricted.” “Who has told you this?” said the Master, getting up. “Mariana.” “Confound Mariana! Go and search house and gardens, and take the search-light, and bring her back in half an hour.” Everard withdrew. “Disappeared!” said Mr. Barringcourt, left to himself, and his brows came together blackly. “That is impossible, without the help of Mariana,” and then he turned to the letter he was writing and finished it, though it was a long one, before Everard returned. On his entrance the Master looked up. “She is nowhere.”