I was rather more keen than usual about that particular visit, as I expected to meet a young Catholic priest, who was to stay with the Ashols for a day or two in company with his mother, an old friend of the hostess.  For that reason Val would have accompanied me that evening, in spite of his aversion to such “inanities,” as he chose to call dinner parties, had he not been otherwise engaged.  He had already made an appointment to interview for the first time a girl who lived some distance away and could not be easily postponed; moreover, the occasion was important, being the commencement of a series of instructions preparatory to her reception into the Church.  For the lassie in question—­to use the terminology of Ardmuirland—­“had gotten a Catholic man”; in other words, was engaged to be married to a Catholic, who had inspired her with the desire of sharing his faith as well as his worldly goods.

It was early when I arrived.  The Colonel and some of the men were still out on the moors, but a few guests were sitting about in the big, cool entrance hall, waiting for tea.  Among them were Mrs. Vansome and her son, to both of whom I was at once presented.  They happened to be the only Catholics of the house party.  We chatted amicably for some time, until the dressing-bell broke up the gathering for the nonce.

I happened to remain for a few minutes in the hall after the rest had left; I wanted to look into a paper which was there, and I knew my room from previous visits.  The staircase ran along two sides of the hall and led to a broad corridor, upon which the rooms opened.  Another passage at right angles joined this corridor, and to reach my room I had to pass by the end of it.

It was just between daylight and dusk, on a September evening, and no lamps were yet needed.  As I passed the passage on my way I saw an elderly lady coming toward the main corridor.  I am no great observer of feminine costume—­perhaps because I am not much in ladies’ company, or, it may be, because I never had a sister to instruct me; I can only say of this lady’s dress, therefore, that it struck me as differing from those I had lately seen in the hall, both in fashion and material.  I remember hearing a rustling as of silk, and I think there was some white lace about the neck and hair.

But what struck me most was the woman’s face.  I had looked in her direction, lest I might seem discourteous to some acquaintance; but this was a stranger.  The face was that of a woman in an agony of suffering!  The wide-open eyes were full of trouble; the whole countenance expressed pain and something like terror. (I am describing the impression made upon me at the moment, for the incident passed more quickly than it takes to tell, however brief the narration.)

As my eyes met hers, the woman stretched out her hands with an appealing gesture, and seemed to be hastening swiftly toward me.  But just as she was almost near enough to touch me, she suddenly disappeared—­having turned, as it seemed to me, into a door close by.