“Would you—would you, really?” cried Papillon, her face alight with impish mirth. “Then, of course, you understand this— Oh, la d’moiselle, comme elle est sot-te, Eh, je me moque de sa sot-ti-se! Eh, la d’moiselle, comme elle est bê-te, Eh, je m’ris de sa bê-ti-se!” She sang this impromptu nonsense _prestissimo_ as she danced out of the room, leaving the accomplished Dorothy vexed and perplexed at not having understood a single word. It was nearly an hour later when Denzil entered the saloon hurriedly, pale and perturbed of aspect, with Dorothy and her brother following him. “We have been hunting all over the house for Mrs. Angela and Henriette,” Denzil said, and Fareham started up from the chess-table, scared at the young man’s agitated tone and pallid countenance. “We have looked in every room—” “In every closet,” interrupted Dorothy. “In every corner of the staircases and passages,” said Squire Dan. “Can your lordship help us? There may be places you know of which we do not know?” said Denzil, his voice trembling a little. “It is alarming that they should be so long in concealment. We have called to them in every part of the house.” Fareham hurried to the door, taking instant alarm—anxious, pale, alert. “Come!” he said to the others. “The oak chests in the music-room—the great Florentine coffer in the gallery? Have you looked in those?” “Yes; we have opened every chest.” “Faith, to see Sir Denzil turn over piles of tapestries, you would have thought he was looking for a fairy that could hide in the folds of a curtain!” said Lettsome. “It is no theme for jesting. I hate these tricks of hiding in strange corners,” said Fareham. “Now, show me where they left you.” “In the long gallery.” “They have gone up to the roof, perhaps.” “We have been in the roof,” said Denzil. “I have scarcely recovered my senses after the cracked skull I got from one of your tie-beams,” added Lettsome; and Fareham saw that both men had their doublets coated with dust and cobwebs, in a manner which indicated a remorseless searching of places unvisited by housemaids and brooms. Mrs. Dorothy, with a due regard for her dainty lace kerchief and ruffles, and her cherry silk petticoat, had avoided these loathly places, the abode of darkness, haunted by the fear of rats. Fareham tramped the house from cellar to garret, Denzil alone accompanying him. “We want no posse comitatus,” he had said, somewhat discourteously. “You, Squire, had best go and mend your cracked head in the eating-parlour with a brimmer or two of clary wine; and you, Mrs. Dorothy, can go and keep her ladyship company. But not a word of our fright. Swoons and screaming would only hinder us.” He took Mrs. Lettsome’s arm, and led her to the staircase, pushing the Squire after her, and then turned his anxious countenance to Denzil.