In vain Alleyne bethought him of where he was, and of those laws of good breeding and decorum which should restrain him: those colored capitals and black even lines drew his hand down to them, as the loadstone draws the needle, until, almost before he knew it, he was standing with the romance of Garin de Montglane before his eyes, so absorbed in its contents as to be completely oblivious both of where he was and why he had come there.
He was brought back to himself, however, by a sudden little ripple of quick feminine laughter.

Aghast, he dropped the manuscript among the chessmen and stared in bewilderment round the room.

It was as empty and as still as ever.

Again he stretched his hand out to the romance, and again came that roguish burst of merriment.

He looked up at the ceiling, back at the closed door, and round at the stiff folds of motionless tapestry.