"Oh, you have come," I cry well pleased, "and in time for tea. That is right. Have you taken off your shooting-things? I cannot see anything distinctly where you now are." "I am quite clean, if you mean that," says he, laughing and advancing. "I shall do no injury to your sanctum. But it is too early to go through the regular business of dressing yet." "Had you a good day?" "Very good indeed, and a pleasant one altogether. Jenkins was with me, and would have come in to pay you his respects, but thought he was hardly fit for so dainty a lady's inspection. Have you been lonely, darling? How have you occupied yourself all day?" "Very happily," I say, surrendering one of my warm hands into his cold ones. And then I proceed to recount all the weighty affairs of business with which I have been employed during his absence. But even as I speak the words freeze upon my lips. Between me and the dreary landscape outside rises something that chills every thought of my heart. It is a head, closely covered with some dark clothing--the faintest outlines of a face--a pair of eyes that gleam like living coals. As I gaze horror-stricken, it disappears, so suddenly, so utterly, as to almost make me think it was a mere trick of the imagination. Almost, but not quite the eyes still burn and gleam before me, but to my memory comes Bebe's marvellous tale. "'Duke, 'Duke," I cry rising, "what is it? What have I seen? Oh! I am horribly frightened!" I cling to him, and point eagerly towards the window. "Frightened at what?" asks 'Duke, startled by my manner, and gazing ignorantly in the direction I have indicated. "A face," I say nervously. "It was there only a moment ago. I saw it quite distinctly, and eyes so piercing. Marmaduke," shrinking closer to him, "do you remember Bebe's story?" "My darling girl, how can you be so absurd," exclaims 'Duke, kindly, "letting that stupid tale upset you so? You only imagined a face, my dearest. You have been too much alone all day. There can be nothing." "There was," I declare, positively. "I could not be so deceived." "Nonsense, Phyllis! Come with me to the window and look out. If there really was any one, she must be in view still." He leads me to the window rather against my will, and makes me look out. I do so to please him, standing safely ensconced behind his arm. "The lawn is bare," he says convincingly; "there is no cover until one reaches the shrubberies beyond; and no one _could_ have reached them since, I think. Now come with me to the other window." I follow him submissively with the same result; and finally we finish our researches in the bow-window, at the farthest end of the room. The prospect without is dreary in the extreme. A storm is steadily rising, and the wind is soughing mournfully through the trees. Great sullen drops of rain fall with vindictive force against the panes.