So the High Priest slept in his big arm-chair beside the fireplace, and St Armand, hearing his regular breathing, turned down all the lights, threw fuel on the fire, went downstairs by the private staircase leading from this private suite of rooms, and so out into the garden, unobserved, and away, leaving the door unlocked. “For,” said he, “I should be nothing but a damper and a gooseberry, for, give a man and a woman each other’s society under certain mutual conditions, and the devil’s presence is altogether unnecessary.” Yet he waited till he heard the sound of wheels, and presently saw a woman’s figure gliding through the gardens toward the private door. Then, shadow-like, he vanished, laughing. “I wonder what Barringcourt will say?” said he. “Quarrel again--lovers are always quarrelling, but nothing serious. Well, he ought to look after her, for no one else will, not even I--although, speaking modestly, I believe she’s taken quite a fancy to me.” But, whilst he had walked, waiting in the private grounds for Marigold, Mr Barringcourt had entered by the big front door--informed, as spirits are, that something was about to happen, not knowing what. Like as St Armand might, he had passed unnoticed up the famous staircase, along the corridors, and to the private suite of rooms. He found them quite deserted, the High Priest quite alone and sleeping, the fire burning brightly, all other light subdued. And he felt the holy pulse, and looked a little puzzled. “Stronger than usual, and yet he’s only a few more days to live. St Armand’s medicine, I suppose. I’ll wait a while, and make up his accounts whilst I am waiting. From ten o’clock till midnight,” and he glanced at the timepiece. “It’s getting on for ten.” Then he laid his hand upon the High Priest’s brow and eyelids, and the peaceful sleep became a little heavier, the breathing longer drawn and more pronounced; and then he pulled out a notebook, and began making up a list. “It will spare time when he is dead,” said he. And twice he got up from his chair beside the invalid and opened the heavy eyes. They stared out as meaningless and fixed as death, yet the Master had been trained to read the mental impression of long-past incidents that still remained. So absorbed was he again in writing, that he never heard the clock strike, nor presently the softly opened door. And there stood Marigold, perceived by no one. And all the mourning colours, clinging black and simple white, she wore since Patches’ death had vanished. And instead, there stood a radiant vision, a shot effect of ruby and amber and emerald, changing and glowing even in the firelight. A wealth of hair dressed to perfection, yet neat and close enough to show the shape of her dainty head, bosom and arms quite uncovered, white and shining too, more so in contrast to the glowing shades beneath, and here and there a gleaming jewel. But beside her face all the rest was insignificant.