"And how long have you been one of them?" I inquired. I stepped into the room and shut the door behind me. Then I sat down facing her. She was giving me a good deal to think over.
"From the day I was born," she explained, with a perverse enjoyment in my perplexity.
"Are you ever called Claire?" I asked.
"Yes, since it happens to be my name."
"But Clarissa Bartlett, the real Clarissa Bartlett, is supposed to be dead," I tried to tell her.
"I've been as good as dead for the last few weeks," was her somewhat embittered answer.
"But how did you get out here?" I inquired, going back to my first question.
"I got in a car and motored out," she calmly explained.
"But why did you come here? Why did you come to this particular house?" I persisted.
She hesitated. And still again I repeated the question.
"I'd go anywhere to get away from that awful house," was her final acknowledgment.
"Why do you call it awful?"
Her reply was at least a startling one.
"Because Wendy Washburn made it that way for me!"
