“Is the Baron’s name, ‘Karl’, Marchesa? Anyway, the gentleman who joined our circle in the dark to-day, was evidently the person the Spirit was in search of, for directly he appeared, he beckoned to him to approach the cabinet. The stranger called the Spirit, ‘Ricardo’--I heard him more than once--and said how glad he was to meet him again, and then the old man drew him into the cabinet and they were talking there for more than ten minutes. Not entirely on pleasant subjects either, I imagine, for we heard the gentleman groan several times, and as soon as he emerged, he went straight through your bedroom, and we have not seen him since. Could it have been the Baron, do you think, Marchesa?” But the Marchesa stood before her, trembling. “Yes! yes! no doubt,” she contrived at last to utter; “who else could have passed through my bedroom? The Baron has a private key to my apartments. What a fool I was not to think of it!” she added to herself. “And was ‘Ricardo’ an old friend of yours?” persisted the lady. “He was a great friend of the Baron’s,” replied her hostess, whilst a pallid hue stole over her features; “they often talk together! I am surprised to hear that my husband seemed nervous! He is too well used to spiritualism for that, though, as a rule, he does not approve of it. What could Ricardo have said to him, to overcome him as you say?” “Ah! that we cannot tell you, dear Marchesa, but if you had heard him groan! I only hope it was not the Baron. But you look quite tired--much more wearied than usual, so perhaps we had better leave you to rest! Good-bye! Such a delightful afternoon!” _Such a delightful afternoon!_ It looked like it, as Hannah stood in her bedroom free and alone, and reviewed the events of the day. Ricardo and Von Steinberg had met again at last. Notwithstanding her caution and her secrecy, they had met, face to face, and conversed with one another. What had they said?--what revealed?--what had her husband heard about her Past or Present? She stood there, sick with apprehension, until she heard a footstep approach her door, and felt that her hour had come. CHAPTER XIX. When Karl von Steinberg rushed from the séance room, it was with the intention of seeking the open air. He felt as if he should be stifled in the atmosphere of his wife’s boudoir--as if he could not breathe in that dark and airless chamber, so fraught with treachery, deceit, and crime. He wanted to get out under God’s pure Heaven, to walk miles and miles into the open country, and never go back to Portland Place again. But when he reached the hall door, he encountered a long line of carriages, drawn up in waiting for the aristocratic sitters, and he feared lest the traces of what he was undergoing might be visible on his features, and that he should betray himself before their servants. So he turned back and sought his private sitting-room instead, and sat down there, with his head buried in his hands, and tried to think.