“Maybe.” Stone spoke preoccupiedly.
Mason Elliott, too, sat in deep thought. At last he said:
“Aunt Abby, if I were you, I wouldn’t tell that yarn to anybody else. Let’s all forget it, and call it merely a dream.”
“What do you mean, Mason?” The old lady bridled, having no wish to hear her marvelous experience belittled. “It wasn’t a dream—not an ordinary dream—it was a true appearance of Sanford, after his death. You know such things do happen—look at that son of Sir Oliver Lodge. You don’t doubt that, do you?”
“Never mind those things. But I earnestly beg of you, Aunt Abby, to forget the episode—or, at least, to promise me you’ll not repeat it to any one else.”
“Why?”
“I think it wiser for all concerned—for all concerned—that the tale shall not become public property.”
“But why?”
“Oh, my land!” burst out Fibsy; “don’t you see? The ghost was Mrs. Embury!”
The boy had put into words what was in the thoughts of both Stone and Elliott. They realized that, while Aunt Abby’s experience might have been entirely a dream, it was so circumstantial as to indicate a real occurrence, and in that case, what solution so plausible as that Eunice, after committing the crime, wandered into her aunt’s room, and whether purposely or accidentally, dropped the implement of death?