From the salon the staircase of the great house ran with broad shallow steps into the hall. The beautiful balustrade was of carved oak, the corner pillars topped with griffins holding gilded shields. French tapestries covered the walls, and from the central boss of the ceiling a great brass lantern hung by a chain. Hortense paused at the stair’s head, with Anne Purcell at her side. The rain rattled against the windows, with the light of the torches casting wavering shadows over the glass. A servant stood holding the door of the hall open, with the torches making a turmoil of smoke and flame. Barbara, as she came from the salon, was struck by the eager poise of her mother’s figure as she leaned forward slightly over the balustrade. My Lord Gore and his son came in out of the night with their cloaks aglisten, and rain dropping from their beavers. The vision that greeted them was the vision of two women waiting at the stair’s head in their rich dresses, the light from the lantern throwing their figures into high relief. Hortense, in autumn gold, tall and opulent, crowned by her crown of splendid hair, seemed a figure divine enough to top that great oak stairway with its sweep of shadows. Anne Purcell, leaning forward with one hand on a carved pillar, symbolized watchfulness and secret suspense. While in the background the Spanish swarthiness of her daughter’s face added that mystery and solemn strangeness to the picture that life conveys in its moment of pathos or of passion. My Lord Gore made straight for the stairway, hat in hand. “Soyez tranquille, mesdames; a mere pin-prick in the shoulder.” Hortense glanced past him with interest at the bronzed and imperturbable face of his son. “Whose was the wound? Not—?” “No, no, my Jackanapes had the madman at his mercy. May we men of blood ascend? Assuredly the name of Gore seems suited to the occasion!” He turned his head and smiled over his shoulder at his son. “Come up, my Jack the Giant-killer! Where is our little mistress, our inspirer of heroics?” Anne Purcell bent toward him—as though swayed by her woman’s instinct. “The little fool shall stay at home in future—” “Psst—beware—!” My lord gave a forced laugh, and looked upward over my lady’s shoulder. He had caught sight of Barbara standing in the doorway of the salon. “Behold the inflamer of the peaceful citizens of Westminster! Mistress Barbara, my child, see what an obstinate mouth will do!” Anne Purcell and Hortense had both turned toward the salon. My Lord Stephen was at the stair’s head, his son a little below him, with the light from the lantern falling full upon his face. But the girl standing in the doorway of the salon seemed the significant and compelling figure of the moment. She was staring at John Gore with a bleak intentness that ignored the three who waited for her to make way. “Barbara!” Her mother seized her arm and pushed her—almost roughly—into the salon.