There was nothing distinctive at first glance about the couple who entered. The man was smooth shaven and of middle-age, slightly florid, slightly bald with lines of fatigue or dissipation about his eyes. The woman, a trifle younger, carried herself with a certain indolent grace, but her complexion was a shade too brilliant, her hair meretriciously yellow, and her voluptuous figure in its shimmering gown resembled a gorgeous over-blown flower.
The others addressed them familiarly as "Mortie" and "Louise," but with their entrance Betty noted a perceptible change in the spirit of the assembled party. The talk became disjointed, but more general in tone, and the note of intimacy was lacking.
At dinner, Betty was seated between the fatuous young man and Mr. Dana, with Wolvert again facing her across the table, as on the evening of her arrival. The debonair, bantering manner was gone, and he sat in moody silence, the food untouched before him, but his wine glass emptied as quickly as Welch could replenish it. A dull red gathered beneath his cheek bones, and his eyes glowed fitfully as the dinner progressed.
Betty could feel his gaze fastened upon a point just back of her, and involuntarily she glanced over her shoulder. The table had been enlarged to accommodate the augmented circle, and she realized with a start that she was seated directly in front of the hearth, almost upon the very spot where the body of the dead man had lain.
Madame Cimmino leaned over swiftly with her hand on Wolvert's arm, and whispered a few words in his ear, then deliberately she reached across for his wine glass and placed it beside her own plate.
He straightened as if suddenly awakened and flashed a lightening glance around the table, and at that moment the nasal tones of Mrs. Dana were raised in lazy derision.
"Ghosts! They went out of fashion with moated granges and secret panels. Good Lord, who believes in 'em nowadays?"
The professor shook his shaggy gray head.
"There is much that not yet scientifically explained has been," he remarked argumentatively. "It is the talk of a child to say, 'This cannot be,' because we know it not. I, myself, haff seen——"
"My dear Professor!" Doctor Bayard lifted a slim, blue-veined hand in deprecation. "I suffer from insomnia. Do not present me, I beg of you, with a group of shades to evoke about my bed! If the ghosts of men live after them, it can be only in the thoughts of those who are left behind."