Helene Explains

And what she heard made her blood run cold.

Mme Dauvray spoke in a hushed, awestruck voice.

"There is a presence in the room."

It was horrible to Celia that the poor woman was speaking the
jargon which she herself had taught to her.

"I will speak to it," said Mme. Dauvray, and raising her voice a
little, she asked: "Who are you that come to us from the spirit-
world?"

No answer came, but all the while Celia knew that Wethermill was
stealing noiselessly across the floor towards that voice which
spoke this professional patter with so simple a solemnity.

"Answer!" she said. And the next moment she uttered a little
shrill cry--a cry of enthusiasm. "Fingers touch my forehead--now
they touch my cheek--now they touch my throat!"

And upon that the voice ceased. But a dry, choking sound was
heard, and a horrible scuffling and tapping of feet upon the
polished floor, a sound most dreadful. They were murdering her--
murdering an old, kind woman silently and methodically in the
darkness. The girl strained and twisted against the pillar
furiously, like an animal in a trap. But the coils of rope held
her; the scarf suffocated her. The scuffling became a spasmodic
sound, with intervals between, and then ceased altogether. A voice
spoke--a man's voice--Wethermill's. But Celia would never have
recognised it--it had so shrill and fearful an intonation.

"That's horrible," he said, and his voice suddenly rose to a
scream.

"Hush!" Helene Vauquier whispered sharply. "What's the matter?"

"She fell against me--her whole weight. Oh!"