She got up, and lit her candle. Light in hand, she went close to the picture, till the painted eyes were plain. Dark eyes they were, in a pale, cruel face, with red lips, like Ismay’s own. The fair hair was piled high on the head; the dress was of the latter part of the last century. “So you are the lady that walks! And you are a little like me, which is all the better,” she murmured. “And if you are a wise ghost, you will help me, and not hinder me, for you and I are all the defense Cristiane le Marchant has.” Her eyes, that were full of a strange compelling, were fastened on the picture. Childish and far-fetched as it was, it seemed to the girl that she was bending something to her own ends, something both wickeder and weaker than she. A strange delight thrilled her. “I am not afraid any more!” she cried out, with soft rapture, “and I remember the tune now.” With a noiseless movement, she was at the spinet, under her fingers the whole tune tinkled out, and this time there was no dread in her of a lurking terror behind. Ghost, imagination, mice--whatever it was--she, Ismay Trelane, was its mistress, by the very courage of her heart. There was nothing there, nothing! Yet there should be a terror there that would walk in darkness, and hear, and know, and see, till Marcus Wray was thwarted in this house, at least. The cold air of the room had struck to her bones, and she drew her warm gown about her as she turned to go. She had learned enough to go on. From now, not a word spoken at midnight, or a trap laid, would escape Ismay Trelane. She was laughing to herself as she walked to the door. But as she turned the handle, she stopped. The spinet was playing. Clear, unearthly, that strange tune tinkled out, under her very eyes. Whatever it was, it was very queer. She stared incredulously, as Thomas had done, but, unlike Thomas, she was not frightened. “Thank you!” she said gravely, and without bravado. “If you are a musical box, or whatever you are, you are going to be my friend.” And without a tremor she turned to the uncanny thing when its tune was done, and peered once more into its depths. Had she been blind before? For now she saw plainly enough a small brass bracket, black with age, almost invisible in dust. It was a plain oblong slip, about the size of a railway-ticket, and it stuck out from the inside of the case. Leaning down, Ismay pressed it, ever so lightly. Almost immediately the weird music poured into the room. The girl saw the whole thing now. The woman to whom it belonged had had it made, so that she might hear the tune she loved without playing it. Her threat to her servant had been a grim and mocking jest. Very quietly, she put out her light and went out into the dark hall and down-stairs, and yet she was trembling. If it were all a trick, why had her candle gone out? “If I had once been frightened I should have died of it, up there in the moonlight!” she said to herself, with conviction. CHAPTER XIX.