Chapter Thirteen.
The Stone again.
“Well? What is it, dear? Forgotten something?”
With an effort he had put on a light, matter-of-fact tone. He pretended not to notice her perturbation.
“No. But—”
She looked genuinely distressed, worse still—genuinely frightened. She almost pushed past him in her anxiety to get into the full light, and he noticed a quick movement of half turning the head as though to look behind her.
“But—what? I think it’s that bit of fried plum pudding; still, the touch of burnt brandy on it should have counteracted its effects,” he went on, keeping up the rôle. “Nightmare of course. And our solemn discussion before you turned in would make that way.”
“No, no,” and she shook her head, decisively. “I wish it was. As sure as I sit here, Uncle Seward, there was a Something in the room. I heard it—first—heard it moving, but for the life of me I dared not move myself, not even to light the candle. It was the sound of steps—of light steps—coming towards the bed. Oh, it was horrible—awful?” she broke off, with a quick, scared glance around as though still expecting to see something. “And then—wait a bit,” seizing him by the wrists. “Something cold and clammy touched my face, just touched it—like the feel of dead fingers. I could see something shadowy too in the light of the fire—and then I just dashed out of bed and came straight down here.”