“It wasn’t a dream--and it wasn’t a piano,” said Ismay quietly. “Thomas can tell you; I’ve had enough without talking about it. And, if I were you, I’d get to bed before it got much later; I want to get my door locked. I don’t care much for those dark corridors outside. And if you get frightened out there it won’t be of any use coming to my door, for no power on earth would make me unlock it after twelve o’clock at night. This is a vile, abominable house, and I’m afraid in it. So now you know.” “I know I never heard anything so silly,” viciously; yet the cowering, apprehensive look the girl gave at the corridor, as her mother threw open the door into it made Mrs. Trelane uncomfortable. Ismay hesitated for an instant before she locked the door and returned to bed. “I never found out why she came back, or why she brought him,” she mused. “But it would have been no good to ask. She would only have made up something; she never looked at me except that once, when I made her. And it would not be wise to go down and listen after telling her ghost-stories. She didn’t believe them, and she’ll tell him, and he won’t believe them, and they’ll laugh. But all the same he will investigate every mouse that squeaks in the passage, and I should get caught.” She got into bed, suddenly conscious of being very weary as she nestled into the warm sheets, but her mind was alert enough. “I’ll give them time to interview Thomas, and let my tale sink in a little. I don’t believe they will say anything worth knowing to-night. And by to-morrow night I shall know more. I’ll probably be able to frighten her into anything by to-morrow night!” Yet the next instant she sat up and listened. She had been right; that was the rustle of her mother’s dress, as she swept by to her bedroom. Ismay sat perfectly quiet as the light steps paused and Mrs. Trelane tried the door again. Not a sound answered her sharp “Ismay!” but the girl did not smile as she spoke to herself when the steps had passed on. “I’ve convinced her that I’m not to be got at, at night, from fright,” she muttered, “if I were not really sick with fright for her life--and other things--it might be funny!” and as she lay down she shivered. CHAPTER XXIII. A GHOSTLY EAVESDROPPER. Mr. Wray sat by the library fire the next night as the clock chimed twelve. There was whisky beside him, and soda, but he was not drinking, only staring at the hearth, and tapping with his finger on his knee, with the old action of driving in a nail. The day had been long, hideously long, to every one but Cristiane le Marchant, who had drunk in specious, covert admiration as a thirsty man drinks water. To Mrs. Trelane it had been one effort of the nerves not to give way to her misgivings; to Ismay the hours had dragged, and yet flown, in her fears that to-morrow might be fraught with danger that could not be evaded; her longing, that was yet a dread, for Cylmer’s return. And, come what might, Wray must not see them together.