my first task was a hard one, that which remains before me looks more nearly hopeless than anything I have ever been called upon to attempt.”
“It is horrible, it is horrible,” said the girl, shudderingly. “Oh, Mr. Knox,” she turned to me, “I have felt all along that there was some stranger in the house”
“You have told me so.”
“Conundrums! Conundrums!” muttered Harley, irritably. “Where am I to begin, upon what am I to erect any feasible theory?” He turned abruptly to Val Beverley. “Does Madame de Stämer know?”
“Yes,” she answered, nodding her head; “and hearing the others depart, she asked me to tell you that sleep is impossible until you have personally given her the details of your discovery.”
“She wishes to see me?” asked Harley, eagerly.
“She insists upon seeing you,” replied the girl, “and also requests Mr. Knox to visit her.” She paused, biting her lip. “Madame’s manner is very, very odd. Dr. Rolleston cannot understand her at all. I expect he has told you? She has been sitting there for hours and hours, writing.”
“Writing?” exclaimed Harley. “Letters?”
“I don’t know what she has been writing,” confessed Val Beverley. “She declines to tell me, or to show me what she has written. But there is quite a little stack of manuscript upon the table beside her bed. Won’t you come in?”
I could see that she was more troubled than she cared to confess, and I wondered if Dr. Rolleston’s unpleasant suspicions might have solid foundation, and if the loss of her cousin had affected Madame de Stämer’s brain.
