’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. Nigel! You have not forgotten. The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. It was locked. There would be no way of keeping her police questioning a secret from the entire neighborhood. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. And there was another matter.
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