"Rest, rest, rest—peace—rest," it whispered and sang.
Bramham came to the table, took another sandwich, and ate it walking about the room.
"Well, I can smell something," he averred, as though making a new statement. "Can't you, Abinger?"
"Oh, have some more coffee, Bram. Your nerves have gone back on you."
Poppy poured him out another cup.
"We are all odd to-night," she said, with a wan smile.
"It must be the news about poor Nick Capron," Bram said, and was just taking his coffee-cup from her hand when they thought they heard a sound. They looked at each other. It was a gentle little sound, and might have been anything imagination suggested—a groan, or a cough, or an exclamation. They waited intently to hear it repeated, but it never came again. Abruptly Bramham caught up a lamp—the lamp with Mrs. Brookfield's little pink-silk shade upon it, and walked towards the only door of the room that was open. It was the door of Carson's bedroom—Poppy's eyes saw that in a moment. She and Abinger had risen and followed Bram, and stood behind him in the doorway. Her eyes took in every detail of the wide, breezy room; the long, green curtains at the windows, the heavy oak furniture, the guns, and whips, and rods standing about, the books—and a big photograph of Mrs. Portal's gay-sad face, smiling, on the mantelpiece.
Then she went back to her chair and listened once more to the whispering sea:
"Rest, rest—peace, rest."
"I swear I heard someone say 'Oh!'" said Bramham angrily.