The garden was nearly deserted, only one or two solitary figures in shawls and overcoats still lingering in the beauty of the moonlight. Rivers placed John standing in the shadow of a piece of shrubbery, close to the open space which she had crossed as she made her round of the little promenade, and he himself took the seat under the laurels which he had occupied on the previous night. He thought there was no doubt that she would come to him, that after the hotel people had disappeared she would be on the watch, and hasten to hear what he had to tell her. When time passed on and no one appeared, he got up again and began himself to walk round and round, pausing now and then to whisper to John Trevanion that he did not understand it--that he could not imagine what could be the cause of the delay. They waited thus till midnight, till the unfortunate waiters on the veranda were nearly distracted, and every intimation of the late hour which these unhappy men could venture to give had been given. When twelve struck, tingling through the blue air, John Trevanion came, finally, out of his hiding-place, and Rivers from his chair. They spoke in whispers, as conspirators instinctively do, though there was nobody to hear. “I cannot understand it,” said Rivers, with the disconcerted air of a man whose exhibition has failed. “I don’t think it is of any use waiting longer,” said John. “Oh, of no use. I am very sorry, Trevanion. I confidently expected--” “Something,” said John, “must have happened to detain her. I am disappointed, but still I do not cease to hope; and if, in the meantime, you see her, or any trace of her--” “You may be sure I will do my best,” Rivers said, ashamed, though it was no fault of his, and, notwithstanding Rosalind’s refusal to believe, with all his faith in his own conclusions restored. They shook hands silently, and John Trevanion went away downcast and disappointed. When he had gone down the narrow street and emerged into the Place, which lay full in the moonlight, he saw two tall, dark shadows in the very centre of the white vacancy and brightness in the deserted square. They caught his attention for the moment, and he remembered after that a vague question crossed his mind what two women could be doing out so late. Were they sisters of charity, returning from some labor of love? Thus he passed them quickly, yet with a passing wonder, touched, he could not tell how, by something forlorn in the two solitary women, returning he knew not from what errand. Had he but known who these wayfarers were! CHAPTER LVI.