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“Your card, madam. Your passport out.”

“I have none. I shall not be away five minutes.”

“I am afraid you cannot go.”

“But I must go.”

There was no answer. Exasperated, Rosalie stood and faced him.

“You let me in, and you can let me out.”

“The orders are that you are not to pass.”

“Whose orders?”

“The master’s.”

“Then take me to him.”

“He is engaged at present.”

“I’ll go myself, then.”

ssss1

As Rosalie passed along the corridor her sudden decision was sealed by growing annoyance and a longing, almost amounting to fear, to get away.

With scarcely a pause she knocked upon the door, that door through which she entered last night. Without stopping she opened it. Mr. Barringcourt was there alone, at a table littered with papers, writing. He was indeed busy and engrossed, for on her entrance he did not raise his head, till accosted by her voice, and then he looked up sharply enough.

“You!” said he, bringing his eyebrows together in that dark frown which Rosalie had seen last night, and seeing had never forgotten.