“Renee!”

It was the voice of the elderly lady, who, with the Cure at her side, had just appeared from the rear of the house, and from the further end of the terrace was looking towards the garden in search of the young girl.  His escape in that way was cut off.  To add to his dismay, the young girl, perhaps roused by her mother’s voice, was beginning to show signs of recovering consciousness.  Dick looked quickly around him.  There was an open door, opposite the window, leading to a hall which, no doubt, offered some exit on the other side of the house.  It was his only remaining chance!  He darted through it, closed it behind him, and found himself at the end of a long hall or picture-gallery, strangely illuminated through high windows, reaching nearly to the roof, by the moon, which on that side of the building threw nearly level bars of light and shadows across the floor and the quaint portraits on the wall.

But to his delight he could see at the other end a narrow, lance-shaped open postern door showing the moonlit pavement without—­evidently the door through which the mother and the Cure had just passed out.  He ran rapidly towards it.  As he did so he heard the hurried ringing of bells and voices in the room he had quitted—­the young girl had evidently been discovered—­and this would give him time.  He had nearly reached the door, when he stopped suddenly—­his blood chilled with awe!  It was his turn to be terrified—­he was standing, apparently, before himself!

His first recovering thought was that it was a mirror—­so accurately was every line and detail of his face and figure reflected.  But a second scrutiny showed some discrepancies of costume, and he saw it was a panelled portrait on the wall.  It was of a man of his own age, height, beard, complexion, and features, with long curls like his own, falling over a lace Van Dyke collar, which, however, again simulated the appearance of his own hunting-shirt.  The broad-brimmed hat in the picture, whose drooping plume was lost in shadow, was scarcely different from Dick’s sombrero.  But the likeness of the face to Dick was marvelous—­convincing!  As he gazed at it, the wicked black eyes seemed to flash and kindle at his own,—­its lip curled with Dick’s own sardonic humor!

He was recalled to himself by a step in the gallery.  It was the Cure who had entered hastily, evidently in search of one of the servants.  Partly because it was a man and not a woman, partly from a feeling of bravado—­and partly from a strange sense, excited by the picture, that he had some claim to be there, he turned and faced the pale priest with a slight dash of impatient devilry that would have done credit to the portrait.  But he was sorry for it the next moment!