"Listen, then. You remember the night Mr. Linmere was murdered?"
Margie grew pale as death, and clasped her hands convulsively.
"Yes, I remember it."
"You desired us, after we had finished dressing you, to leave you alone. We did so, and you locked the door behind us, stepped from the window, and went to the grave of your parents."
"I did."
"You remained there some little time, and when you turned away, you stopped to look back, and in doing so you laid your hand—this one,—" she touched Margie's slender left hand, on which shone Archer Trevlyn's betrothal ring—"on the gate post. Do you remember it?"
"Yes, I remember it."
"And while it rested there—while your eyes were turned away, that hand was touched—by something soft, and warm, and sentient—too warm, too passionate, to be the kiss of a disembodied soul. Living human lips, that scorched into your flesh, and thrilled you as nothing else ever had the power to thrill you!"
Margie trembled convulsively, her color came and went, and she clasped and unclasped her hands with nervous agitation.
"Am I not speaking the truth?"