said, "that woman was in this house last night. You
can see her footprints as plain as day on the doorstep. And what's more,
she stole the cat and let out your mother's Paisley shawl."

Which statements, corrected, proved to be true. My old Paisley shawl was
gone from the hallrack, and unquestionably the cat had been on the back
doorstep that morning along with the milk bottles. Moreover, one of my
fresh candles had been lighted, but had burned for only a moment or two.

That day I had a second visit from young Martin Sprague. The telephone
was in working order again, having unaccountably recovered, and I was
using it when he came. He watched me quizzically from a position by the
newelpost, as I rang off.

"I was calling Miss Emily Benton," I explained, "but she is ill."

"Still troubled with telephobia?"

"I have other things to worry me, Martin," I said gravely, and let him
into the library.

There I made a clean breast of everything I omitted nothing. The fear,
the strange ringing of the telephone bell; the gasping breathing over it
the night before; Miss Emily's visit to it. And, at last, the discovery.

He took the paper when I offered it to him, and examined it carefully by
a window. Then he stood looking out and whistling reflectively. At last
he turned back to the room.

"It's an unusual story," he said. "But if you'll give me a little time
I'll explain it to you. In the first place, let go of the material
things for a moment, and let's deal with minds and emotions. You're a
sensitive person, Miss Agnes. You catch a lot of impressions that pass
most people by. And, first of all, you've been catching fright from two
sources."

"Two sources?"

"Two. Maggie is one. She hates the country. She is afraid of old houses.
And she sees in this house only the ghosts of people who have died
here."

"I pay no attention to Maggie's fears."

"You only think that. But to go further--you have been receiving waves
of apprehension from another source--from the little lady, Miss Emily."

"Then you think--"

"Hold on," he said smiling. "I think she wrote that confession. Yes.
As a matter of fact, I'm quite sure she did. And she has established
a system of espionage on you by means of the telephone. If you had
discovered the confession, she knew that there would be a change in your
voice, in your manner. If you answered very quickly, as though you had
been near the instrument, perhaps in the very act of discovering