"Poor girl!" thought Nigel. "I wonder what's the matter with her."

He went on down the corridor to the lift, descended, and made his way to
the Thames Embankment.

When the door shut behind him, Mrs. Chepstow remained standing for a
minute near the piano, waiting, like one expectant of a departing
guest's return. But Nigel did not come back to say any forgotten, final
word. Presently she realized that she was safely alone, and she went to
the piano, sat down, and struck the chords which supported the notes on
which the priest dismissed the soul. But she only played them for a
moment. Then, taking the music off the stand and throwing it on the
floor, she began to play a Spanish dance, lascivious, alluring, as full
of the body as the music of Elgar is full of the soul. And she played it
very well, as well, almost, as a hot-blooded girl of Seville could have
danced it. As she drew near the end, she heard a sound in the adjoining
room, and she stopped abruptly and called out:

"Henriette!"

There was no reply.

"Henriette!" Mrs. Chepstow called again.

The door of the bedroom opened, and the French girl with red eyes
appeared.

"Why don't you answer when I speak to you? How long have you been
there?"