“That’s the queer part. When he got up there the door was locked, and Thomas said he hadn’t locked it. Marcus was going to break open the door, and I thought the old man would have killed him. He said that his dead master’s orders were that no one was to enter that room, and he was there to see them obeyed. Even Marcus had to give in to him.” “Good for Thomas!” the girl observed quietly. “Was the spirit playing all this time?” “No; it was quieter than the grave. So Marcus shrugged his shoulders--you know how he does--and we came down-stairs again. There wasn’t another sound all night. But to-night he and Cristiane are going up to investigate after Thomas is in bed. They planned it at breakfast, and she’s going to get a key. I don’t know what Marcus is up to, for I don’t think he believes in ghosts. I suppose it will be a good opportunity for flirtation, for lately I think he’s made up his mind to marry her.” “To-night, are they?” For some unknown reason Miss Trelane leaned back in her chair and laughed, wrinkling up her eyes deliciously. “Oh, I don’t think he’ll marry her,” she remarked. “You forget he means to marry me.” Mrs. Trelane flushed under her powder. “How do you know?” she said, with sudden suspicion. “If I don’t know it’s not for want of hearing,” the retort remarkably misleading in its truth. “Oh, mother, how I hate him, don’t you? He has been our evil genius ever since Abbotsford was murdered.” “I hate him well enough,” said her mother sullenly; “but I don’t want him to tell I took those diamonds. I could never prove myself innocent of the other, if it came out that it was I who took those.” “And yet you are innocent. You haven’t blood enough to sin--like that.” “Have you?” asked the woman, aghast, for the cold, queer eyes were a thing to shudder at. “I wouldn’t murder; it’s generally so messy. But I could stand by if I hated a man, and see him commit a murder, just so that I might see him hanged for it. And so,” very deliberately, “would you!” “Ismay, you know?” the wretched woman, whose cunning had failed her, crouched abjectly in her chair, as she whispered the words. “I know nothing; neither do you,” Ismay rejoined sternly. “But he would--hang!” The words came out slowly, separately, like the blows of a hammer. “I couldn’t see it,” the woman was sobbing wildly, the girl’s face set like a rock. “Besides, he’d tell before he died--about the diamonds--it wouldn’t be safe. Ismay, Ismay, you’re stronger than I ever was. For God’s sake, save me from myself!” And it was the mother who bore her who was agonized at her daughter’s feet, who prayed to her for help against herself. “Save me from myself!” the girl repeated mechanically. Was that her own prayer, too? She trembled, and did not know. The next instant she was kneeling by her mother’s chair.