Meantime, Joseph, being very tired, was shooting out a pettish lip
because he had to go to bed without saying good-night to Uncle David; and
his mother, making terms with this pretence, consented to bring down his
nightdress, thinking Rossi might be out of the sitting-room by that
time, and the boy be pacified. But when she returned to the dining-room
the sitting-room door was still closed, and Joseph was pleading to be
allowed to lie on the sofa until Uncle David carried him to bed.
"I'm not asleep, mamma," came in a drowsy voice from the sofa, but
almost at the same moment the measured breath slowed down, the
watch-lights blinked themselves out, and the little soul slid away into
the darksome kingdom of unconsciousness.
Suddenly, in the silence of the room, Elena was startled by a voice. It
came from the sitting-room. Was it Mr. Rossi's voice? No! The voice was
older and feebler than Mr. Rossi's, and less clear and distinct. Could
it be possible that somebody was with him? If so, the visitor must have
arrived while she was in the bedroom above. But why had she not heard
the knock? How did it occur that Joseph had not told her? And then the
lamp was still on the dining-room table, and save for the firelight the
sitting-room must be dark.
A chill began to run through her blood, and she tried to hear what was
said, but the voice was muffled by its passage through the wall, and she
could only catch a word or two. Presently the strange voice, without
stopping, was broken in upon by a voice that was clear and familiar, but
now faltering with the note of pain: "I swear to God I will!"
That was Mr. Rossi's voice, and Elena's head began to go round. Whom was
he speaking to? Who was speaking to him? He went into the room alone, he
was sitting in the dark, and yet there were two voices.
A light dawned on Elena, and she could have laughed. What had terrified
her as a sort of supernatural thing was only the phonograph! But after a
moment a fresh tremor struck upon her in the agony of the exclamations
with which David Rossi broke in upon the voice that was being reproduced
by the machine. She could hear his words distinctly, and he was in great
trouble. Hardly knowing what she did, she crept up to the door and
listened. Even then, she could only follow the strange voice in
passages, which were broken and submerged by the whirring of the
phonograph, like the flight of a sea-bird which dips at intervals and
leaves nothing but the wash of the waves.