"No, sir."
In these replies there was no such confirmation of my own strange experiences as I had expected, and hoped, to receive when she began to speak of shadows, and I ascribed her fears to the natural nervousness of a child living in a lonely house. They were no stronger than sensitive children living in comfortable homes, with parents and brothers and sisters around them, often suffer from. I had tired Barbara out with my string of questions; her eyelids were closing and opening; her head was nodding. In the silence that ensued she closed her eyes, and did not open them again. The child had fallen asleep.
CHAPTER XIX.
[IMPORTANT INFORMATION.]
Bob and I conversed in whispers; but Barbara was sleeping so soundly that we might have spoken in our natural voices without fear of awaking her.
"What do you think of it, Bob?" I asked.
"I don't know what to think," he replied. "I only know one thing--that the child has spoken the truth."
"Of that there is no doubt," I said; "but what does it point to?"
He conveyed his answer in two words, "Foul play!"
I nodded.