"Excuse me, sir," interrupted the voice of the young man who had
been left in the hall, "the lady is listening to what you say. She
is still at the head of the stairs."

"She is, is she!" cried Fenton, sharply, his admiration for the
fascinating stranger having oozed out at his companion's rebuff.
"I will soon show her--" But the words melted into thin air as he
reached the door. The young girl had disappeared, and only a faint
perfume remained in the place where she had stood.

"A most extraordinary person," grumbled the constable, turning
back, but stopping again as a faint murmur came up from below.

"The gentleman is waking," called up a voice whose lack of music
was quite perceptible at a distance.

With a bound Mr. Fenton descended the stairs, followed by Mr.
Sutherland.

Miss Page stood before the door of the room in which sat Philemon
Webb. As they reached her side, she made a little bow that was
half mocking, half deprecatory, and slipped from the house. An
almost unbearable sensation of incongruity vanished with her, and
Mr. Sutherland, for one, breathed like a man relieved.

"I wish the doctor would come," Fenton said, as they watched the
slow lifting of Philemon Webb's head. "Our fastest rider has gone
for him, but he's out Portchester way, and it may be an hour yet
before he can get here."