"Is it that you're lonely since Miss Ellen died?" "I guess so." Tony was thoughtful; then with sudden inspiration he ventured the remark: "Mebbe you're afraid to stay alone by yourself in the house nights." "Maybe." "You ain't seen a ghost?" he whispered. "I'm going away because of a ghost, yes," Lucy murmured half to herself. "Then I don't blame you," exclaimed Tony vehemently. "You wouldn't ketch me stayin' in a house that was haunted by spirits. Where you goin'--back out West?" "Perhaps so." She helped him to carry the trunk out to the wagon and strap it in; then she got in herself. As they drove in silence out of the yard, not a soul was in sight; nor was there any delay at the station to give rise to gossip. She had calculated with such nicety that the engine was puffing round the bend in the track when she alighted on the platform. Hurriedly she bought her ticket, checked her trunk, and put her foot on the step as the train started. Waving a good-by to the faithful servant, who still lingered, she passed into the car and sank down into a seat. She watched the valley, beautiful in amethyst lights, flit past the window; then Sefton Falls, flanked by misty hills, came into sight and disappeared. At last all the familiar country of the moving panorama was blotted out by the darkness, and she was alone. Her eyes dropped to the ticket in her lap. Why she had chosen that destination she could not have told. It would, however, serve as well as another. If in future she was to be forever cut off from all she loved on earth, what did it matter where she went? CHAPTER XVII THE GREAT ALTERNATIVE After Lucy left the office, Mr. Benton sat for an interval thinking. Then he yawned, stretched his arms, went to his desk drawer, and took out the will which he slipped into his waistcoat pocket. With hands behind him he took a turn or two across the room. He was a man not lacking in feeling, and impulses of sympathy and mercy until now had deterred him from the execution of his legal duties. Since, however, it was Lucy Webster who had rung up the curtain on the drama in which an important part had been assigned him, there was no need for him to postpone longer the playing of his role. He had received his cue. His lines, he admitted, were not wholly to his liking--not, in fact, to his liking at all; he considered them cruel, unfair, vindictive. Notwithstanding this, however, the plot was a novel one, and he was too human not to relish the fascinating uncertainties it presented. In all his professional career no case so remarkable had fallen to his lot before.