Norma and Braye went for a walk, and frankly discussed it.
“Of course, Eve colours it without meaning to,” declared Braye; “it couldn’t have happened, you know. We were all locked in, and Lord knows none of us could have put that stunt over even if we had wanted to.”
“Of course not; that locking in business was unnecessary, but it does prove that no human agency was at work. That leaves only Eve’s imagination—or—the real thing.”
“It wasn’t the real thing,” and Braye shook his head. “There ain’t no such animal! But Eve’s imagination is——”
“No. Mr. Braye, you’re on the wrong tack. Eve’s imagination is not the sort that conjures up phantoms. Vernie’s might do that, or Mrs. Landon’s,—but not Miss Carnforth’s. She is psychic,—I know, because I am myself——”
“Miss Cameron,—Norma,——” and Braye became suddenly insistent, “don’t you sleep in that infernal room, will you? Promise me you won’t.”
“Why?” and the big blue eyes looked at him in surprise. “As Sentimental Tommy used to say, ‘I would fell like to!’ Why shouldn’t I?”
“Oh, I don’t want you to,” and Braye looked really distressed. “Promise me you won’t—please.”
“Why do you care? ’Fraid I’ll be carried off by the Shawled Woman?”
“Ugh!” and Braye shivered. “I can’t bear to think of you alone down there. I beg of you not to do it.”