She was making for the entrance door. He took her hand gently, and led her into a side door, and on into the ballroom. She moved towards a window through which the moonlight streamed, and sat on a cushioned bench beneath it. It was the spot where he had seen her at the dance. She leaned forward, looking into space, as she did at him then. He moved and got in her line of vision. The picture was weird. She wore a soft white chamber-gown, her hair hung loose on her shoulders, her pale face cowled it in. The look was inexpressibly sad. Over her fell dim, coloured lights from the stained-glass windows; and shadowy ancestors looked silently down from the armour-hung walls. To Gaston, collected as he was, it gave an ominous feeling. Why did she come here even in her sleep? What did that look mean? He gazed intently into her eyes. All at once her voice came low and broken, and a sob followed the words: “Gaston, my brother, my brother!” He stood for a moment stunned, gazing helplessly at her passive figure. “Gaston, my brother!” he repeated to himself. Then the painful matter dawned upon him. This girl, the granddaughter of the rector of the parish, was his father’s daughter--his own sister. He had a sudden spring of new affection--unfelt for those other relations, his by the rights of the law and the gospel. The pathos of the thing caught him in the throat--for her how pitiful, how unhappy! He was sure that, somehow, she had only come to know of it since the afternoon. Then there had been so different a look in her face! One thing was clear: he had no right to this secret, and it must be for now as if it had never been. He came to her, and took her hand. She rose. He led her from the room, out into the court-yard, and from there through the gate into the road. All was still. They passed over to the rectory. Just inside the gate, Gaston saw a figure issue from the house, and come quickly towards them. It was the rector, excited, anxious. Gaston motioned silence, and pointed to her. Then he briefly whispered how she had come. The clergyman said that he had felt uneasy about her, had gone to her room, and was just issuing in search of her. Gaston resigned her, softly advised not waking her, and bade the clergyman good-night. But presently he turned, touched the arm of the old man, and said meaningly: “I know.” The rector’s voice shook as he replied: “You have not spoken to her?” “No.” “You will not speak of it?” “No.” “Unless I should die, and she should wish it?” “Always as she wishes.” They parted, and Gaston returned to the Court. CHAPTER VIII. HE ANSWERS AN AWKWARD QUESTION The next morning Brillon brought a note from Ian Belward, which said that he was starting, and asked Gaston to be sure and come to Paris. The note was carelessly friendly. After reading it, he lay thinking. Presently he chanced to see Jacques look intently at him.