Lucy was inclined for conversation. “It’s funny, sir,” she said, “what difference Miss Janet makes about the house, comin’ in and goin’ out. You couldn’t want a better mistress; but if it weren’t for ’er . . . I must be seein’ to things downstairs.” She hurried away. The room was quiet save for the ticking of the clock. The little blue tiles of the fireplace shone under the lamp, the china plates round the wall made eyes at him. He was sitting straight up in his chair listening. The uneasiness that he had felt at first would soon, if he did not keep it in check, grow into terror. There was no reason, no cause that he could in the least define, but he felt as though things were happening outside the door. He didn’t know what sort of things, but he fancied that by listening very hard he could hear soft footsteps, whispers, and a noise like the rustling of carpets. The ticking of the clock grew louder and louder, and to forget it he flung up the window so that he could hear the noises of the town. But there weren’t any noises; only, very far away, some cat was howling. The night was now very dark; the stars seemed to have disappeared; the wind made the lamp flare. He closed the window. At the same moment the door opened and he saw Morelli standing there smiling at him. It was the same charming smile, the trusting, confiding laugh of a child; the merry twinkle in the eyes, taking the whole world as a delightful, delicious joke. “Why, Maradick!” He seemed surprised, and came forward holding out his hand. “I’m delighted! I hope you haven’t been waiting long. But why is Janet not entertaining you? She’s only upstairs, I expect. I’ll call her.” He moved back towards the door. “Miss Morelli isn’t in,” Maradick said slowly. He was standing up and resting one hand on the table. “Not in?” “No. Your servant told me so.” He wanted to say more. He wanted to give his message at once and go, but his tongue seemed tied. He sat down, leaning both his arms on the table. Morelli laughed. “Oh well, I expect she’s out with Minns somewhere—walking, I suppose. They’re often late; but we’ll wait supper a little if you don’t mind. We’ll give them ten minutes. Well, how’s young Gale?” Seeing him like this, it was almost impossible to reconcile him with all the absurdly uncouth ideas that Maradick had had of him. But the uncanny feeling of there being some one outside the door was still with him; he had a foolish impulse to ask Morelli to open it. Then he leant across the table and looked Morelli in the face. “That’s what I came to tell you. Young Gale has gone.” “Gone? What, with his people? I’m sorry. I liked him.” “No. Not with his people. He was married to your daughter at two o’clock this afternoon. They have gone to London.” There was absolute silence. Morelli didn’t move. He was sitting now on the opposite side of the table facing Maradick.