Marguerite thought of all this on this bright October morning
as she glanced along the corridor. Frank was evidently busy with his
master's rooms, for most of the doors stood open, that of the study
amongst the others.
A sudden burning, childish curiosity seized her to have a peep
at Sir Percy's sanctum. This restriction, of course, did not apply to
her, and Frank would, of course, not dare to oppose her. Still, she
hoped that the valet would be busy in one of the other rooms, that she
might have that one quick peep in secret, and unmolested.
Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the landing and, like Blue
Beard's wife, trembling half with excitement and wonder, she paused a
moment on the threshold, strangely perturbed and irresolute.
The door was ajar, and she could not see anything within. She
pushed it open tentatively: there was no sound: Frank was evidently
not there, and she walked boldly in.
At once she was struck by the severe simplicity of everything
around her: the dark and heavy hangings, the massive oak furniture,
the one or two maps on the wall, in no way recalled to her mind the
lazy man about town, the lover of race-courses, the dandified leader
of fashion, that was the outward representation of Sir Percy Blakeney.
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