Unwillingly and forebodingly, Horace left the room.
She drew a deep breath of relief, and dropped into the nearest chair.
If Horace had stayed a moment longer--she felt it, she knew it--her head would have given way; she would have burst out before him with the terrible truth.

"Oh!" she thought, pressing her cold hands on her burning eyes, "if I could only cry, now there is nobody to see me!" The room was empty: she had every reason for concluding that she was alone.

And yet at that very moment there were ears that listened--there were eyes waiting to see her.
Little by little the door behind her which faced the library and led into the billiard-room was opened noiselessly from without, by an inch at a time.

As the opening was enlarged a hand in a black glove, an arm in a black sleeve, appeared, guiding the movement of the door.

An interval of a moment passed, and the worn white face of Grace Roseberry showed itself stealthily, looking into the dining-room.
Her eyes brightened with vindictive pleasure as they discovered Mercy sitting alone at the further end of the room.