"What's that?" she asked, in a low voice, but sharply.
"Here's another right pretty record," said Mrs. Sheridan, affecting--
with patent nervousness--not to hear. And she unloosed the music.
Sibyl bit her lip and began to tap her chin with the brooch. After
a little while she turned to Bibbs, who reposed at half-length in
a gold chair, with his eyes closed.
"Where did Edith go?" she asked, curiously.
"Edith?" he repeated, opening his eyes blankly. "Is she gone?"
Sibyl got up and stood in the doorway. She leaned against the casing,
still tapping her chin with the brooch. Her eyes were dilating; she
was suddenly at high tension, and her expression had become one of
sharp excitement. She listened intently.
When the record was spun out she could hear Sheridan rumbling in the
library, during the ensuing silence, and Roscoe's voice, querulous and
husky: "I won't say anything at all. I tell you, you might just as
well let me alone!"
But there were other sounds: a rustling and murmur, whispering, low
protesting cadences in a male voice. And as Mrs. Sheridan started
another record, a sudden, vital resolve leaped like fire in the eyes
of Sibyl.
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