The Mystery of a Turkish Bath

The stars were gleaming above the dusky pine trees. The soft December air, mild as spring on that sheltered coast, scarcely stirred the drooping boughs that overshadowed the terrace. Colonel Estcourt lit his cigar, and began to pace with slow and thoughtful steps beneath the many lighted windows of the great building. Mrs Jefferson's words haunted him, despite his efforts to dispel them. One of those windows belonged to the room where this strange and beautiful woman might even now be seated. Why did he picture to himself the pale exquisite face -- the full dark eyes -- the lovely rippling hair -- as if they were charms already recognised and remembered. Why? -- save that when he had heard their description they had struck home to his memory with a shock of pain, and a feverish dread that longed yet feared to find itself realised. To and fro -- to and fro -- he paced the terraced walk, and again and again his eyes sought that long line of light above his head.

There was a strange stillness in the brooding air -- that mysterious hush, which is the music of night's gentle footsteps, and insensibly its soothing influence stole over the unquiet of his restless thoughts -- the warring powers of soul and sense grew silent and at rest.