“And in spite of that they also believe that when any one dies they go either to hell or to heaven,” he jeered. “Can’t you see the thing’s absurd?” “But I heard something. I did, indeed. Oh, I’m nervous, unstrung. I can’t face those dark stairs and passages. You will have to go up with me.” “Because Thomas is hanging round to see that all the lights are out,” shrugging his shoulders. “I suppose neither of those two girls would come down for anything.” Mrs. Trelane shook her head. “Thomas thinks we are all in bed. He hasn’t left a light anywhere. Jessie sleeps in a room off Cristiane’s; she would never let her get out of her bed. And Ismay--oh, Mark! even Ismay is afraid here at night. She locks her door and won’t open it till daylight--for fear.” “Then she has her weak side, for all her airs.” He moved, lamp in hand, to the foot of the stairs. “There, I’ll stay here till you are in your room,” he said resignedly. “I wonder why women were created cowards.” But she did not answer him. As quickly and almost as lightly as Ismay, she had sped up the stairs and was groping through the dark hall above their own room. When she reached it she was breathless; for just as Ismay had said, she had heard that faint footfall, coming closer every minute; inexorable, ghostly, in the silent house where no one waked save she and Marcus Wray. The latter had heard nothing, nor would he have cared if he had. In so old a house night noises were a foregone conclusion. He returned to his neglected whisky and soda, and a cigar. But there was no bite to the whisky, no taste in the tobacco. His mind was not as easy as he liked, in spite of his friend in Amsterdam. There had been a weak point in the underground career of those diamonds, and Mr. Wray knew it. “What has to be done must be done at once,” he said aloud, stretching out his long legs in Sir Gaspard’s chair. “And then I’ll be off to lie low till I can reap the harvest. My old friend here can’t escape me, even if she dared to try. And the weather has turned cold,” his voice changed abruptly, as if something pleased him. “It’s freezing hard. If all goes well the day after to-morrow will see the fair Helen an heiress, after which I shall spend a few months living retired--in Bohemia.” Yawning, he extinguished the light and went up-stairs to bed. This country life was at present convenient; in future it would be profitable; but it was certainly deadly dull. “To-morrow I’ll amuse myself with my dear friend and well-wisher, Ismay,” he reflected. “I like to see her hate me, it adds to the pleasure of having her under my fingers. Hello!” as he stood in his door, candle in hand--the candle he would not give Helen Trelane for pure deviltry--“what’s that?” From somewhere far off a tinkling tune came softly, yet clearly; an unearthly sound in the midnight hush.