CHAPTER XXIV
ANOTHER MURDER
SHE stood, crouching slightly, half-way between the stair-head and the end of the hall, staring into the blackness of the open fireplace, the revolver yet smoking in her hand. Her posture was that fear, controlled by will power. Already, half suspecting the truth, I sprang forward and grasped her arm.
"What was it, Miss Denslow? What were you firing at?"
The tenseness of her muscles gave way, and her slender form swayed back against the support of my shoulder, one hand clasping at my sleeve.
"At something there—there I God knows what; it looked like a woman, but such a face—such a face!"
"Yes, yes; I understand; I have seen the same," I said hastily. "It was in fear of such an appearance again that I gave you the revolver. Yet what is it—a vision of the brain, or a reality? I have examined every inch of that tunnel; I came through it alone ten minutes ago, and saw nothing. No one could enter from the other end, or from this, without being seen. The mystery puzzles me."
She drew away from my support, trembling still, yet already more resolute.
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