Thomas Batchgrew and Louis were already out in the hall.  Half-way down the stairs stood Mrs. Maldon, supporting herself by the banisters and being supported by Mrs. Tams.  She was wearing her pink peignoir with white frills at the neck and wrists.  Her black hair was loose on her shoulders like the hair of a young girl.  Her pallid and heavily seamed features with the deep shining eyes trembled gently, as if in response to a distant vibration.  She gazed upon the two silent men with an expression that united benignancy with profound inquietude and sadness.  All her past life was in her face, inspiring it with strength and sorrow.

“Mr. Batchgrew,” she said.  “I’ve heard your voice for a long time.  I want to speak to you.”

And then she turned, yielded to the solicitous alarm of Mrs. Tams, climbed feebly up the stairs, and vanished round the corner at the top.  And Mrs. Tams, putting her frowsy head for an instant over the hand-rail, stopped to adjure Mr. Batchgrew—­

“Eh, mester; ye’d better stop where ye are awhile.”

From the parlour came the faint sobbing of Rachel.

The two men had not a word to say.  Mr. Batchgrew grunted, vacillating.  It seemed as if the majestic apparition of Mrs. Maldon had rebuked everything that was derogatory and undignified in her trustee, and that both he and Louis were apologizing to the empty hall for being common, base creatures.  Each of them—­and especially Louis—­had the sense of being awakened to events of formidable grandeur whose imminence neither had suspected.  Still assuring himself that his position was absolutely safe, Louis nevertheless was aware of a sinking in the stomach.  He could rebut any accusation.  “And yet ...!” murmured his craven conscience.  What could be the enigma between Mrs. Maldon and Rachel?  He was now trying to convince himself that Mrs. Maldon had in fact divided the money into two parts, of which he had handled only one, and that the impressive mystery had to do with the other part of the treasure, which he had neither seen nor touched.  How, then, could he personally be threatened?  “And yet!...” said his conscience again.

In about a minute Mrs. Tarns reappeared at the head of the stairs.

“Her will have ye, mester!” said she to the councillor.

Thomas Batchgrew mounted after her.

Louis made a noise with his tongue as if starting a horse, and returned to the parlour.

Rachel, still on the sofa, showed her wet face.

“I’ve got no secret,” she said passionately.  “And I’m sure Mrs. Maldon hasn’t.  What’s he driving at?”

The natural freedom of her gestures and vehement accent was enchanting to Louis.

She jumped from the Chesterfield and ran away upstairs, flying.  He followed to the lobby, and saw her dash into her own room and feverishly shut the door, which was in full view at the top of the stairs.  And Louis thought he had never lived in any moment so exquisite and so alarming as that moment.