“Oh, how I have prayed and prayed for some one to come,” she continued. “Ever since midnight I have lain here fainting and reviving, fainting and reviving, too weak to rise, and longing for water to cool my parched throat. Oh, thank you, thank you, how sweet and cool it is! Oh, what a wretched day! When I heard your steps and voices coming, I fainted from pure joy!” She did not seem surprised at their coming. Perhaps she guessed in some way at the reason. Beresford stooped over her with anguish in his eyes. “I must ask you one question,” he cried, “and as you hope for Heaven, if you die, I implore you, answer it truly. Is Florence Fane in this house?” “She is not. That is true,” answered Maybelle, growing paler at this reminder of her successful rival. “Where is she, then? Do you know?” “I swear I do not know,” she replied, faintly, and he read truth in her beautiful eyes. She was strangely beautiful in her pallor and pain, and Alva thought for a moment how strange it was that her brother had not loved charming Maybelle before he met Floy. But in the next moment she sighed to herself: “There is no accounting for Love’s vagaries. I am glad my brother loved little Floy instead of imperious Maybelle.” Beresford looked at the poor girl with pitying eyes. The knowledge of her hopeless love for himself softened his heart, and he said, gently: “Why did you attempt this terrible deed? What malign influence drove you to self-murder?” She shuddered and closed her eyes. He thought she was going to faint again, and reproached himself for tormenting her by such questions. But Maybelle opened her eyes again, and said, solemnly: “I will tell you the grim secret of Suicide Place, for perhaps I am dying, and the story should be known, and the old building torn down to set at rest an unquiet spirit. Floy knows it all, I am sure, but I do not think she would ever tell.” “You may exhaust yourself,” he objected, though his curiosity was on the _qui vive_. “No; I shall not talk more than is necessary.” She swallowed some more wine held to her lips by his hand, and began: “Perhaps you have heard that the owners of this property--Floy’s ancestors--were very rich long ago?” “Yes, I have heard of old Jasper Nellest who was so miserly, and yet died poor, and left his descendants nothing but this property that seemed afterward to be banned by a curse,” he replied. “Yes, that is the gist of the story,” answered Maybelle, sighing. “That old man died rich, but he had turned all he owned into yellow, shining, golden coin. But he did not mean to cheat his heirs of their inheritance, only he died suddenly before he could tell them where the treasure was hidden. Well, his punishment is to haunt his old home, vainly trying to reveal the secret he carried to the grave.” “Can this be true?” cried Alva in wonder. “It is true,” answered Maybelle. “I have seen him again and again, and it is horrible!” She paused and glanced half fearfully at the door, muttering: