"Yes; and it seemed as though she held a key in her hand."
"Was she carrying anything else?" Vance's effort at calmness was only half successful.
"I didn't notice—I was too terrified."
"Could she, for instance, have been carrying a pair of galoshes?" he persisted.
"She might have been. I don't know. She had on her long Oriental shawl, and it fell down about her in folds. Maybe under the shawl. . . . Or she might have put them down when she struck the match. I only know I saw her—moving slowly . . . there in the darkness."
The memory of that unbelievable vision completely took possession of the girl. Her eyes stared, trance-like, into the deepening shadows.
Markham cleared his throat nervously.
"You say yourself it was dark in the hall last night, Miss Greene. Perhaps your fears got the better of you. Are you sure it might not have been Hemming or the cook?"
She brought her eyes back to Markham with sudden resentment.
"No!" Then her voice took on its former note of terror. "It was mother. The match was burning close to her face, and there was a terrible look in her eyes. I was only a few feet from her—looking straight down on her."
Her hold on Vance's arm tightened, and once more her agonized gaze turned to him.
"Oh, what does it mean? I thought—I thought mother could never walk again."
Vance ignored her anguished appeal.
