With a bow, accompanied by a courteous acknowledgment of her words, Bevill proceeded towards the house, when to his astonishment he heard the old gardener, who had reached his side before this, mutter some words in an angry voice--the words, "He here again! He! No matter. To-night he shall not enter." Attracted by these mutterings and also by the old man's glances directed towards the great gate, Bevill could not refrain from following those glances, and, as he did so, saw that a man's eyes were staring in through the wrought-iron bars. The eyes he recognised as those belonging to the same man who had stared so inquiringly at him on the quay less than half an hour before. CHAPTER XIII. The hall of this old house was large and square, its floor composed of brown and yellow diamond-shaped marble tiles, over the greater part of which were thrown down various rugs of gorgeous hues. Facing the entrance was a large staircase, also of marble, that, after ascending for five steps, turned to either side and so led up to a gallery above, from which the first floor rooms opened all round. Now, as Bevill entered the hall, he saw that Sylvia had descended from that floor and was standing on the top step of the five awaiting him. Then, as he approached, she descended the other four steps and, coming swiftly towards him with both hands outstretched, exclaimed: "So you are Bevill Bracton, who once played with me in the gardens of Carey Villa at Fulham--the young man who pined to be a soldier and became one. In truth, and I am well pleased to see you; yet, had I met you elsewhere I should have scarce known you for my old playmate." "Nor I you, Mistress Sylvia Thorne; for then you were a little winsome child and now----" "Now I am a woman. One too," she added, while a shade crept over her face, "whom you find in sad and sorry plight. For, as you know, my father has gone from me--from me who loved him so!--and I am here in this beleaguered city, not knowing whether to leave it or stay on and brave the worst. Yet be that as it may, I thank you for coming here, for offering your services to your kinsman on my behalf." Murmuring his regrets for the loss of her father and also for the situation in which she found herself placed, while protesting that that which he had done and hoped still more to do was nothing, Bevill could not but let his eyes roam over the features of the young woman who stood welcoming him. And, as he did so, he acknowledged how truthfully the Comtesse de Valorme had spoken when she told him that she had the gift of beauty. For beautiful Sylvia Thorne was, with that beauty on which no man gazes without giving instant acknowledgment thereof, even though that acknowledgment is never outwardly expressed by eye or voice.