13
IT was d'Arenne. That glossy black head pillowed on an outflung arm was unmistakable. Verity remained rooted in the doorway. Gingerly his light explored the prostrate figure.
Now that his presentiment of disaster was fulfilled, his unreasoning fear justified, all kinds of arguments were rising in his mind to dispute it—face to face with the inescapable, human nature finds refuge in such evasions. It was just another one of the Vicomte's jokes; d'Arenne and Phyllis had planned this hoax between them; taking advantage of the laird's ghost story, of the fact that it was the night of Michaelmas, to pull this stunt. In a moment the Frenchman, with that impudent laugh of his, would be on his feet, dusting his knees, while from the gallery Phyllis would burst in joyously to enjoy old stick-i
