"But, tell me, Oliver," said Céleste, "where am I? Why have I been brought here? What is to happen to me? Who was the horrible man that drew that awful black hood over my face in the garden?"
"You are in the apartments of the Count de St. Germaine," answered Oliver. "He of whom you speak was that Gaspard, and--and I--do not know what they will do to you, Céleste. But courage, my love. I _must_ go; but do not be afraid; I will save you, I swear it! But I must go. If they find me here they will kill me--What was that?"
It was the sound of the closing of a door below; of footsteps crossing the landing upon which Oliver had followed his silent guide.
_It was the voice of the Count de St. Germaine!_
He cast his despairing eyes around. Where should he escape? To leave by the door was to face the master, whose footsteps he could hear already climbing the stairs towards the room. The window? That meant horrible death upon the pavement beneath.
The wardrobe! The thought was an inspiration. It stood against the farther wall of the room, a huge, ponderous structure of carved and polished wood, inlaid with arabesque patterns of lighter colors. There was no time to lose; the master was almost at the door.
The wardrobe was divided into two compartments separated by a wooden partition, against which the folding doors closed. Oliver climbed into one of the sides and among the clothes that hung from the hooks above, closing the door behind him. As he did so he heard the footsteps of the Count de St. Germaine enter the room.
Gaspard, with his usual silent, cat-like step, must have accompanied the master, bearing a light, for a bright yellow ray fell through the key-hole and traversed the clothes amid which Oliver stood, as though some one crossed the room with a candle.
Oliver scarcely dared breathe as he stood there with palpitating heart, the sweat trickling down his face in streams. He swallowed and swallowed; his mouth was dry and clammy.
The Count de St. Germaine spoke; his voice sounded loud and resonant upon Oliver's tensity of nervous strain.
"Put the lights upon the table there, Gaspard, and bring me my dressing-gown and slippers from the wardrobe yonder."
The words fell upon Oliver's ears like a death-knell. He braced himself to bear the coming shock. It seemed to him that his brain swelled like a soap-bubble, with a hollow, ringing expansion. He heard Gaspard's soft footfalls approaching the closet; it seemed as though it took minutes for him to cross the room. He heard the clever servant's fingers fumbling at the door, and then the wardrobe was opened--but not the side upon which he stood; the dressing-gown and slippers hung in the other compartment.