before: that her life at Cray’s Folly was a constant fight against some haunting shadow. Her gaiety, her lightness, were but a mask. For now, in those wide-open eyes, I read absolute horror.
“Miss Beverley,” I said, grasping her hand reassuringly, “you alarm me. What has made you so nervous to-night?”
“To-night!” she echoed, “to-night? It is every night. If you had not come—” she corrected herself—“if someone had not come, I don’t think I could have stayed. I am sure I could not have stayed.”
“Doubtless the attempted burglary alarmed you?” I suggested, intending to sooth her fears.
“Burglary?” She smiled unmirthfully. “It was no burglary.”
“Why do you say so, Miss Beverley?”
“Do you think I don’t know why Mr. Harley is here?” she challenged. “Oh, believe me, I know—I know. I, too, saw the bat’s wing nailed to the door, Mr. Knox. You are surely not going to suggest that this was the work of a burglar?”
I seated myself beside her on the settee.
“You have great courage,” I said. “Believe me, I quite understand all that you have suffered.”
“Is my acting so poor?” she asked, with a pathetic smile.
“No, it is wonderful, but to a sympathetic observer only acting, nevertheless.”
I noted that my presence reassured her, and was much comforted by this fact.
“Would you like to tell me all about it,” I continued; “or would this merely renew your fears?”
“I should like to tell you,” she replied in a low voice, glancing about her as if to make sure that we were alone.
