With a quickened pulse she turned to find General Fergus beside her.  What a frank and soldierly countenance!—­a little roughly cut, with a strong mouth slightly underhung, and a dogged chin, the whole lit by eyes that were the chosen homes of truth, humanity, and will.  Presently she discovered, as they drew their chairs a little back from the circle, that she, too, was to be encouraged to talk about Warkworth.  The General was, of course, intimately ’acquainted with his professional record; but there were certain additional Indian opinions—­a few incidents in the young man’s earlier career, including, especially, a shooting expedition of much daring in the very district to which the important Mokembe mission was now to be addressed, together with some quotations from private letters of her own, or Lady Henry’s, which Julie, with her usual skill, was able to slip into his ear, all on the assumption, delicately maintained, that she was merely talking of a friend of Lady Henry’s, as Lady Henry herself would have talked, to much better effect, had she been present.

The General gave her a grave and friendly attention.  Few men had done sterner or more daring feats in the field.  Yet here he sat, relaxed, courteous, kind, trusting his companions simply, as it was his instinct to trust all women.  Julie’s heart beat fast.  What an exciting, what an important evening!...

Suddenly there was a voice in her ear.

“Do you know, I think we ought to clear out.  It must be close on midnight.”

She looked up, startled, to see Jacob Delafield.  His expression—­of doubt or discomfort—­recalled her at once to the realities of her own situation.

But before she could reply, a sound struck on her ear.  She sprang to her feet.

“What was that?” she said.

A voice was heard in the hall.

Julie Le Breton caught the chair behind her, and Delafield saw her turn pale.  But before she or he could speak again, the door of the library was thrown open.

“Good Heavens!” said Montresor, springing to his feet.  “Lady Henry!”

* * * * *

M. du Bartas lifted astonished eyes.  On the threshold of the room stood an old lady, leaning heavily on two sticks.  She was deathly pale, and her fierce eyes blazed upon the scene before her.  Within the bright, fire-lit room the social comedy was being played at its best; but here surely was Tragedy—­or Fate.  Who was she?  What did it mean?

The Duchess rushed to her, and fell, of course, upon the one thing she should not have said.

“Oh, Aunt Flora, dear Aunt Flora!  But we thought you were too ill to come down!”

“So I perceive,” said Lady Henry, putting her aside.  “So you, and this lady”—­she pointed a shaking finger at Julie—­“have held my reception for me.  I am enormously obliged.  You have also”—­she looked at the coffee-cups—­“provided my guests with refreshment.  I thank you.  I trust my servants have given you satisfaction.