CHAPTER XXXI
Hamel set down the lamp upon the table. He glanced at the little clock upon the dresser; it was a quarter past ten. The woman had observed his entrance, although it seemed in no way to have discomposed her.
“Do you know the time, Mrs. Cox?” he asked. “You ought to have been home hours ago. What are you doing there?”
She rose to her feet. Her expression was one of dogged but patient humility.
“I started for home before nine o’clock, sir,” she told him, “but it was worse than ever to-night. All the way along by the sea I seemed to hear their voices, so I came back. I came back to listen. I have been listening for an hour.”
Hamel looked at her with a frown upon his forehead.
“Mrs. Cox,” he said, “I wish I could understand what it is that you have in your mind. Those are not real voices that you hear; you cannot believe that?”
“Not real voices,” she repeated, without the slightest expression in her tone.
“Of course not! And tell me what connection you find between these fancies of yours and that room? Why do you come and listen here?”
“I do not know,” she answered patiently.