The Hand in the Dark | Page 7

reflections with a sigh, and turned away
from the window. She was above all things practical, and fully realized
the folly of brooding over the inevitable, but the marriage of her
nephew was a sore point with her. She proceeded in her stately way
down the broad and shallow steps of the old staircase, hung with

armour and trophies and family portraits. At the bottom of the stairs she
encountered a manservant bearing a tray with sherry decanters and
biscuits across the hall.
"Where is Mr. Philip?" she asked.
"I think he is in the billiard room, ma'am," the man replied.
Miss Heredith proceeded with rustling dignity to the billiard room. The
click of billiard balls was audible before she reached it. The door was
open, and inside the room several young men, mostly in khaki, were
watching a game between a dark-haired man of middle age and a young
officer. One or two of the men looked up as Miss Heredith entered, but
the young officer went on stringing his break together with the
mechanical skill of a billiard marker. Miss Heredith mentally
characterized his action as another instance of the modern decay of
manners. In her young days gentlemen always ceased playing when a
lady entered the billiard room. The middle-aged player came forward,
cue in hand, and asked her if she wanted anything.
"I am looking for Phil," she said. "I thought he was here."
"He was, but he has just gone to the library. He said he had some letters
to write before dinner."
"Thank you." Miss Heredith turned away and walked to the library
which, like the billiard room, was on the ground floor. She opened the
door, and stepped into a large room with an interior which belonged to
the middle ages. There was no intrusion of the twentieth-century in the
great gloomy apartment with its faded arabesques and friezes, bronze
candelabras, mediæval fittings, and heavy time-worn furniture.
The young man who sat writing at an ancient writing-table in the room
was not out of harmony with the ancient setting. His face was of
antique type--long, and narrow, and his long straight dark hair, brushed
back from his brow, was in curious contrast to the close crop of a
military generation of young men. His eyes were dark, and set rather
deeply beneath a narrow high white forehead. He had the Heredith

eyebrows and high-bridged nose; but, apart from those traditional
features of his line, his rather intellectual face and slight frame had little
in common with the portraits of the massive war-like Herediths which
hung on the walls around him. He ceased writing and looked up as his
aunt entered.
"I have just been to see Violet," Miss Heredith explained. "She says she
is no better, and will not be able to accompany us to the Weynes'
to-night. I suggested remaining with her, but she would not hear of it.
She says she prefers to be alone. Do you think it is right to leave her? I
should like to have your opinion. You understand her best, of course."
"I think if Violet desires to be alone we cannot do better than study her
wishes," replied Phil. "I know she likes to be left quite to herself when
she has a nervous headache."
"In that case we will go," responded Miss Heredith. "I have decided to
have dinner a quarter of an hour earlier to enable us to leave here at
half-past seven."
"I see," said the young man. "Is Violet having any dinner?"
"No. She has just had some tea and toast, and now she is trying to sleep.
She does not wish to be disturbed--she asked me to tell you so." Miss
Heredith glanced at her watch. "Dear me, it is nearly half-past six! I
must go. Tufnell is so dilatory when quickness is requisite."
"Did you remind Violet about the necklace?" asked Phil, as his aunt
turned to leave the library.
"Yes. She said she would send it down in the morning, before Vincent
leaves."
Phil nodded, and returned to his letters. Miss Heredith left the room,
and proceeded along the corridor to the big dining-room. An elderly
man servant, grey and clean-shaven, permitted a faint deferential smile
to appear on his features as she entered.

"Is everything quite right, Tufnell?" she asked.
Tufnell, the staid old butler, who had inherited his place from his father,
bowed gravely, and answered decorously:
"Everything is quite right, ma'am."
Miss Heredith walked slowly round the spacious table, adjusting a
knife here, a fork there, and giving an added touch to the table
decorations. There was not the slightest necessity for her to do so,
because the appointments were as perfect as they could be made by the
hands of old servants who knew their mistress and