Yet the tide of relief, passionate as it was, could not carry away with it all doubt and fear. He was deaf to her call, insensible to the pressure of her fingers. Even as she knew that no man in ordinary circumstances could fall thus suddenly from waking into slumber, she knew that this was the unconsciousness of the drugged. CHAPTER XIII THOU CANST NOT SAY I DID IT O! my fear interprets. What! is he dead? —SHAKESPEARE (_Othello_). Across a lively interchange of words between Mrs. Geary and Mr. Villars, across Lady Lochore’s shrill laughter and malicious intervention, there fell a silence. It was as if a shadow had suddenly eaten up the light. Lady Lochore became rigid, and the dice-box dropped from her hand.—All looked towards the door. There stood a broad and placid figure, white-capped and white-aproned, with folded hands; a figure surely the very sight of which should have brought comfort and confidence. But Lady Lochore stared at it with terror on her face. “Please, my lady, could I speak with you a minute?” Sir David’s sister rose slowly and moved like an automaton across the room. She lifted her hand to her contracted throat. “I am sorry to tell you, my lady, there is something seriously amiss.” Lady Lochore spread out her arms as if groping for support. Her dry tongue clicked. “I knew there was no use going to Sir David,” continued the unctuous whisper. Sir David! The blackness suddenly passed away from before Lady Lochore’s eyes. “Sir David, woman!” She clutched the housekeeper’s wrist and pinched it sharply. “Yes, my lady.” Margery looked mildly surprised. “Him being always lost in stars, so to speak, and locked up in his tower.” “Then he’s not ill?” Lady Lochore flung the servant’s hand away from her. She drew a deep breath, then gave a little rasping laugh. What news she had hoped for? Relief and disappointment ran through her like cross currents. “Ill, my lady? Sir David? Thank God, no! Not as I know, my lady.” Margery did not often show emotion beyond a well fixed point. But she was surprised; she really was. “Please, my lady,” began the whisper again, and Lady Lochore bent for a moment a scornful ear. Then her laughter rang out again, louder this time. “Excellent Nutmeg! What a story! You have been having toasted cheese for supper, sure!—Listen, good people: some one has been trying to break into Margery’s sacred chamber. Oh, fie, Mrs. Nutmeg!” Her pale lips seemed withered with her forced merriment as she turned upon the trio still sitting round the green cloth. The gamblers halted in their renewed wrangle to give her an impatient attention. Little Priscilla, arrested in a yawn, twisted a small weary face over her shoulder to stare. “Not my chamber,” said Mrs. Nutmeg, raising her voice slightly, but otherwise quite unmoved. “Not yours.” “No, my lady—the chamber over mine.” “Mrs. Marvel’s!”