iving to speak quietly,
and holding her hands tight, "But I will tell you all I know, after you
have explained. Were you disturbed?"

"Yes, but I hardly comprehend what was reality, and what dream. I
slept some, I am sure, lying pressed upon the bed. At first I thought
that was impossible, I was so frightened, and I had so much to think
about, but found myself too utterly exhausted to keep awake. Yet my
slumber was fitful, and filled with dreams. But I am sure of some
things--my door was tried twice, and I heard someone prowling about the
hall--"

"That might have been me," I interrupted, "as I was out there during
the night, but I certainly never tried your door."

"You had a light?"

"Yes."

"I saw that shining over the transom; it was much later when my door
was tried; not long before daylight I think. Whoever it was, passed
out the front hall window onto the porch roof. My light was burning,
although turned low, and no doubt he saw me sitting up, wide awake on
the edge of the bed, for he had disappeared by the time I gained
sufficient courage to approach the window and look out."

"Climbed down the trellis, probably," I said, deeply interested. "It
appears strong enough to support a man. I wish you had got sight of
the fellow."

She lifted her hands to her head.

"But I was so frightened. My head throbs now with pain. I cannot
explain, but--but I had begun to hate this mission of ours before we
ever reached here, and then this awful house, and that man and woman.
I almost begged you not to leave me alone, yet I conquered that
weakness, and said good night, and locked my door. You never realized
how I felt."

"No, not entirely, although I did comprehend you were sorry you had
consented to come."

"Not that altogether," and her eyes uplifting met mine, "I was
frightened last night in the darkness. I confess I completely lost my
nerve, and would have run away if I could. Perhaps I even said things
which made you believe I regretted my action in coming with you. But I
am more myself now, and I mean to remain, and discover what it all
means. Can you guess why?"

"No; I would naturally suppose the night would have added to your
terror, your desire to get away."

"Then you do not suspect even now who I am?"

"Who you are? Only as you have told me."

"And I told you only a half truth. I am the wife of Philip Henley."
Her cheeks flushed, a touch of passion in her voice as she faced me.