What she left he had finished, and then, breathless and angry, had
ridden back across the park with her and had briefly announced to Sir
Aubrey, who happened to be at home upon one of his rare visits, that
his pupil was both too old and too pretty to continue her studies at
the rectory, and had taken himself off as hurriedly as he had come,
leaving Sir Aubrey to settle for himself the new problem of Diana. And,
as before, it was settled in the easiest possible way. Physically she
was perfectly able to take up the role for which he had always intended
her; mentally he presumed that she knew as much as it was necessary for
her to know, and, in any case, travelling itself was an education, and
a far finer one than could be learned from books. So Diana grew up in a
day, and in a fortnight the old life was behind her and she had started
out on the ceaseless travels with her brother that had continued for
the last six years--years of perpetual change, of excitements and
dangers.
She thought of it all, sitting on the broad rail of the balcony, her
head slanted against the column on which she leaned. "It's been a
splendid life," she murmured, "and to-morrow--to-day begins the most
perfect part of it." She yawned and realised suddenly that she was
desperately sleepy. She turned back into her room, leaving the windows
wide, and, flinging off her wrap, tumbled into bed and slept almost
before her head was on the pillow.
It must have been about an hour later when she awoke, suddenly wide
awake. She lay quite still, looking cautiously under her thick lashes.
The room was flooded with moonlight, there was nothing to be seen, but
she had the positive feeling that there was another presence in the
room beside her own; she had had a half-conscious vision in the moment
of waking of a shadowy something that had seemed to fade away by the
window. As the actual reality of this thought pierced through the sleep
that dulled her brain and became a concrete suggestion, she sprang out
of the bed and ran on to the balcony. It was empty. She leaned over the
railing, listening intently, but she could see nothing and hear
nothing. Puzzled, she went back into her room and turned on the lights.
Nothing seemed to be missing: her watch lay where she had left it on
the dressing table; and the suit-cases had apparently not been tampered
with. By the bedside the ivory-mounted revolver that she always carried
was lying as she had placed it. She looked around the room again,
frowning. "It must have been a dream," she said doubtfully, "but it
seemed very real. It looked tall and white and solid, and I felt
it there." She waited a moment or two, then shrugged her shoulders,
turned out the lights, and got into bed. Her nerves were admirable, and
in five minutes she was asleep again.