hat there was something essentially feminine in the
revenge of the figures that had haunted the dead man.

I wondered if Mrs. Fleming had told me all, or only half the truth.

That night, at the most peaceful spot I had ever known, Fred's home,
occurred another inexplicable affair, one that left us all with racked
nerves and listening, fearful ears.

CHAPTER XVIII

EDITH'S COUSIN

That was to be Margery's last evening at Fred's. Edith had kept her as
long as she could, but the girl felt that her place was with Miss
Letitia. Edith was desolate.

"I don't know what I am going to do without you," she said that night
when we were all together in the library, with a wood fire, for light
and coziness more than heat. Margery was sitting before the fire, and
while the others talked she sat mostly silent, looking into the blaze.

The May night was cold and rainy, and Fred had been reading us a poem he
had just finished, receiving with indifference my comment on it, and
basking in Edith's rapture.

"Do you know yourself what it is about?" I inquired caustically.

"If it's about anything, it isn't poetry," he replied. "Poetry appeals
to the ear: it is primarily sensuous. If it is more than that it ceases
to be poetry and becomes verse."

Edith yawned.

"I'm afraid I'm getting old," she said, "I'm getting the nap habit after
dinner. Fred, run up, will you, and see if Katie put blankets over the
boys?"

Fred stuffed his poem in his pocket and went resignedly up-stairs. Edith
yawned again, and prepared to retire to the den for forty winks.

"If Ellen decides to come down-stairs," she called back over her
shoulder, "please come and wake me. She said she felt better and might
come down."

At the door she turned, behind Margery's back, and made me a sweeping
and comprehensive signal. She finished it off with a double wink, Edith
having never been able to wink one eye alone, and crossing the hall,
closed the door of the den with an obtrusive bang.

Margery and I were alone. The girl looked at me, smiled a little, and
drew a long breath.

"It's queer about Edith," I said; "I never before knew her to get drowsy
after dinner. If she were not beyond suspicion, I would think it a
deep-laid scheme, and she and Fred sitting and holding hands in a
corner somewhere."

"But why--a scheme?" She had folded her hands in her lap, and the
eternal ring sparkled malignantly.

"They might think I wanted to talk to you," I s