CHAPTER III
THE TALE OF SIR JAMES DE LA MOLLE
"Is that you, father?" said a voice, a very sweet voice, but one of
which the tones betrayed the irritation natural to a healthy woman who
has been kept waiting for her dinner. The voice came from the recesses
of the dusky room in which the evening gloom had gathered deeply, and
looking in its direction, Harold Quaritch could see the outline of a
tall form sitting in an old oak chair with its hands crossed.
"Is that you, father? Really it is too bad to be so late for dinner--
especially after you blew up that wretched Emma last night because she
was five minutes after time. I have been waiting so long that I have
almost been asleep."
"I am very sorry, my dear, very," said the old gentleman
apologetically, "but--hullo! I've knocked my head--here, Mary, bring
me a light!"
"Here is a light," said the voice, and at the same moment there was a
sound of a match being struck.
In another moment the candle was burning, and the owner of the voice
had turned, holding it in such a fashion that its rays surrounded her
like an aureole--showing Harold Quaritch that face of which the memory
had never left him. There were the same powerful broad brow, the same
nobility of look, the same brown eyes and soft waving hair.
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