Satterthwaite restrained the child’s movement of obedience with a firm grip. “Excuse me,” he said quietly, “I think the youngster is better absent from this discussion.” He led the bewildered little girl to the door, opened it, and called for the nurse. “Put Miss Dorothy to bed!” he ordered. “And then all of you go out for the evening. Go to the movies. Here!” He held out a note. “Have a good time—and get out at once! Mrs. Satterthwaite and I want to be alone in the flat this evening.”
He closed the door and returned to the others. The stranger, dominated for the moment by his quiet, masterful manner, had made no movement to interfere, stood, as he had left him, by the doorway. But his eyes were fixed still wrathfully upon the young woman who stared back at him, fascinated, clutching at the table for support. Her lips were ashen, parted in a soundless terror.
Satterthwaite turned to her.
“Do you know this man, Evelyn?”
She made an effort, answered.
“It—it is Harry—or his ghost!”
The stranger laughed in bitter scorn.
“What foolery!—Don’t pretend I died since yesterday!”
Amazement came into both their faces.