“It was almost morning,” she said, “a faint dawn began to make objects about the room visible, when I opened my eyes and saw a dim, gliding figure—”
Eunice gave an angry exclamation, and rising quickly from her chair, walked into her own room, and closed the door with a slam that left no doubt as to her state of mind.
“Let her alone,” advised Elliott; “she’s better off in there. What is this story, Aunt Abby? I’ve never heard it in full.”
“No; Eunice never would let me tell it. But it will solve all mystery of Sanford’s death.”
“Then it is indeed important,” and Stone looked at the speaker intently.
“Yes, Mr. Stone, it will prove beyond all doubt that Mr. Embury was a suicide.”
“Go on, then,” said Elliott, briefly.
“I will. In the half light, I saw this figure I just mentioned. It wasn’t discernible clearly—it was merely a moving shadow—a vague shape. It came toward me—”
“From which direction?” asked Stone, with decided interest.
“From Eunice’s room—that is, it had, of course, come from Mr. Embury’s room, through Eunice’s room, and so on into my room. For it was Sanford Embury’s spirit—get that firmly in your minds!”