No. Here again there was nothing to see but an empty room.

Where was Miss Westerfield?

Was it within the limits of probability that she had been bold
enough to join the party in the smoking-room? The bare idea was
absurd.

In another minute, nevertheless, Mrs. Presty was at the door,
listening. The men's voices were loud: they were talking
politics. She peeped through the keyhole; the smokers had, beyond
all doubt, been left to themselves. If the house had not been
full of guests, Mrs. Presty would now have raised an alarm. As
things were, the fear of a possible scandal which the family
might have reason to regret forced her to act with caution. In
the suggestive retirement of her own room, she arrived at a wise
and wary decision. Opening her door by a few inches, she placed a
chair behind the opening in a position which commanded a view of
Sydney's room. Wherever the governess might be, her return to her
bed-chamber, before the servants were astir in the morning, was a
chance to be counted on. The night-lamp in the corridor was well
alight; and a venerable person, animated by a sense of duty, was
a person naturally superior to the seductions of sleep. Before
taking the final precaution of extinguishing her candle, Mrs.
Presty touched up her complexion, and resolutely turned her back
on her nightcap. "This is a case in which I must keep up my
dignity," she decided, as she took her place in the chair.