“She was good stuff, Miss Trelane,” the old man went on quietly. “For when he laid her crime before her, and told her he loved her no more, she never even answered him. Just turned away silent, and up-stairs to the room where Sir Guy lay dead. “They say she played that tune then, in that room with a murdered man to listen; played it for the last time. For one of the servants heard it as he passed. And she heard him, too, for she opened the door and called him. “‘James,’ she says, ‘come here. Did you hear me playing just now?’ “‘Madam, yes,’ he answers. ‘’Tis all writ out in a book in the library. You can see it if you like, miss.’ “‘And did you know the tune?’ “’Twas the one you’re so fond of, my lady.’ And he wondered at her for asking, and for sitting without a light, for the room was dark and he could not see into it. “‘You’ll have no chance to forget it, you and those that come after you,’ she says very slow. ‘When I’m gone you’ll hear it, and always for evil. When you hear it’--and she laughed till he thought she was crazy--‘you’ll remember I told you that in my dying hour.’ “Then she draws herself up and speaks out loud and grand till they heard her through the house. “‘Come in, man, and look at your master! He lies dead, and I killed him; for I was weary of his face;’ and before he could know what she meant, she had struck that bloody knife into her own breast, for she was a strong woman, and she knew where to find her heart.” “Is that all?” Ismay spoke with a curious effort, like one in a dream. “All. Except that ’twas a stormy night like this will be, and ’tis those times that she walks. And her spinet plays yet, and no one ever heard it for good, or went into that room for luck.” “I’d like to, Thomas,” she said quietly. “Don’t you go,” he warned her. “For you might be frightened and run, and them stairs outside and the rails of them are fairly crumbling with dry-rot. If you tripped and fell against them, as like as not the banisters would give way with you, and you’d fall to your death into the great hall below. Mind now, Miss Trelane, for that’s the truth.” “What would you do if you saw her, Thomas?” she queried idly. “Me--miss?” he said shamefully. “Well! I’d run and get out of her way, behind a locked door, and so would Jessie. As for the maids, they don’t know, and if they did, they’d be gone without waiting to see her.” Ismay slipped off the table. “Thank you, Thomas,” she said. “I won’t tell Miss Cristiane, or any one else. But it’s a queer story.” “Too queer when you know it’s true,” he muttered. “Excuse me, miss, but the dressing-bell has rung.” “All right. I’m going.” But as she went slowly up the stairs she laughed to herself, and the laugh was short and ugly. Surely she had found a weapon at last to do her good service against Marcus Wray. “To hear is to know,” she thought; “but I hope it may be a long time before I hear his voice in this house. But at least I will be prepared.” CHAPTER XVIII.